A Different Hero
by RiverlandsReborn
Summary: The Tower of Joy is where Arthur Dayne should have died. But a few moments can make all the difference, and now the Legendary Hero must serve his rightful King while keeping him hidden.
1. Arthur I

Arthur I

Arthur watched the men approach on their horses. He and his brothers had been keeping watch from the tower for days since they had received word of the Stark travelling south. Behind him, the dowager queen was giving birth to his King. His other brothers in white stood still, watching the approaching party kick up dust from their steeds. Their formerly white cloaks were now mottled by dust and sand, making them an off white color like the sand of a beach. Arthur wore no gloves, his hands on the hilt of his milksteel blade, Dawn. His ancestral blade almost hummed in his grip with his growing anticipation.

"Should they attempt to do us harm, we must fight and die to keep them from harming our King." The Lord Commander proffered, leaning on his blade slightly. The party of men on their steeds, once appearing to be twenty strong with the dust they kicked up, now revealed to be only seven. At their head was a man of perhaps nineteen, maybe twenty, riding on a pitch black destrier. He was garbed in a leather surcoat, and as their group grew closer he could see the wolf upon his breast.

Eddard Stark, brother to the Lady Lyanna, reined in his warhorse, looking down upon Arthur. "The last three Kingsguard in Westeros. I looked for you on the Trident." Ned said to them, hopping down from his horse with some effort. "We were not there," Gerold said.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell, adjusting his stance slightly. He moved his hand to his sword embedded in the ground. "When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were." "Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in the seven hells." "I came down on Storm's end to lift the siege," Ned told them, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain would be among them."

Arthur's lips upturned slightly. "Our knees do not bend so easily." "Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him." At this Arthur adjusted himself minutely, turning his head to look at the Tower. "No, our Queen is here." Ned worked his jaw slightly, looking at the tower. "Then your besotted Prince did not…?" Ned trailed off, looking up. Wails were beginning to be heard from the tower, as well as the commands of the handmaid Wylla.

Arthur scowled slightly. "Rhaegar is no rapist or kidnapper. He was twice the man the Usurper is. Then your foul stag killed him." Ned scowled at the insult towards his friend, but made no move to fight. In fact, it was the man with the ten dogs on his shield - a Cassel, mayhaps? - who moved to fight. He drew his sword. "You watched as the Mad King burned Brandon and Rickard!" He moved forward, swinging his sword. Arthur barely moved his body, simply bring up his sword and deflecting the blow easily, using the pommel of his sword to disarm the man and then put the tip to his neck in a few short moments.

The blade nicked the man's neck, drawing a small amount of blood. "I swore my oaths to protect the King above all. And so I continue to do." Ned paused, his blade half drawn just like his companions. "Lya," he said, breathlessly, "She's having a babe?" Arthur nodded his head solemnly. Suddenly Ned became much more forceful in his stance. "Let me through, I must see my sister. _Please._ " Arthur looked over the Stark's companions, the shortest among them bearing a crocodile clasp for his cloak - a crannogman, by the looks of it. One of them looked like he had a fiery temper, too. "You - and you alone - may come up. My brothers will keep watch here."

Ned nodded his head fervently, beckoning to his companions to stay there. The one Arthur had nicked looked annoyed and slightly enraged, but respected his lords wishes. Escorting the Stark up the stairs, Arthur kept a hand on Dawn, just in case. They entered the Lady Lyanna's chambers, where she lay, passed out in a pool of blood. Arthur rushed over, looking over the Lady. A babe's cries could be heard nearby, where Wylla stood with a babe swaddled in a blanket. The boy had the stark look about him, though his eyes had speckles of violet. Ned had rushed over to his sister, taking her hand.

With a start, she woke, looking weak. " _Ned._ Ned, you're here, I thought… I thought you wouldn't come. My boy… where is my babe?" She looked around fearfully, until Wylla rushed over. "He's here, my lady." She looked at the baby boy with a smile, though she looked to be in pain. "Jahaerys… that was the name Rhaegar wanted for him. Please, Ned, promise me, protect him from Robert, don't let him die for my mistakes. Arthur… please, defend my babe." Arthur nodded solemnly, looking at the boy, and Ned nodded in affirmation. Lyanna started to sob.

"It's all my fault, I got Father and Brandon killed…" She trailed off, tears streaming down her face. Ned shook his head. "Lya, it's alright, I forgive you." Lyanna looked up at Ned and smiled wanly. "Thank you, Ned." She closed her eyes, taking one last shuddering gasp before she slipped away to face the Father's Judgement. Ned kneeled next to her dead body, her hand in his, weeping. "Oh Lya… I'm sorry, If I'd gotten here faster maybe you'd yet live." Arthur walked over to the young lord, placing his sword against the bed near where the babe lay.

Placing a hand on Ned's shoulder, he looked down upon the queen. She looked peaceful in death, her eyes closed. "Stark. You made your promise. What is to be done with the King?" Ned looked up at him. "I will take him north, to Winterfell. I'll claim him as my bastard. Robert cannot know his true birth, he would kill the boy." Arthur looked out the window at the terse situation below. "Then I shall come with you. I am sworn to serve my King, and so I shall." Ned looked up before nodding. "I need to get help to bring Lya home, to bury her." Arthur turned on his heel.

"Starfall is not far, I can ask my sister for help…" Arthur looked at his brothers below. "What is to be done with them? And what story shall we spin for myself?" Ned looked up. "That can be determined on the morrow. Today, I shall mourn my sister."


	2. Arthur II

Arthur II

Arthur watched the night sky slowly turn to sunrise, the menagerie of colors spreading out across the horizon - a good portion cut off by the Red Mountains - and Arthur felt a serene feeling wash over him. It was peaceful at night, when conflicts were put to rest for at least a night. He had been standing watch for the night, and with the sunrise they would get ready to move.

Arthur longed to see his dear sister Ashara again, too. Last he had heard she was eight moons pregnant, and the maester said the babe was as healthy as could be. _I'm going to be an uncle soon… what a strange thought._ Arthur turned from the battlements of the tower and stepped into the quiet of the bedchambers. The babe Jahaerys - Jon, as Ned called him, and Arthur could not blame him - a name that blatant was sure to rouse suspicions at the very least. Arthur's brothers had decided in the night that they would leave for Sunspear and go to Dragonstone, to serve the rest of the royal family - though they had been slightly hesitant with leaving their King only one guard, they had been assured by Arthur's stoicism in how ready he was to defend the babe.

As Arthur moved through the keep, he saw Ned up and about, watching through the window the receding stars. When Arthur entered and saw his tired look, he raised an eyebrow. "I could not sleep… knowing that my sister is gone, and having to plan our next steps… I gave up on sleep by the Hour of the Wolf. Ironic, I know. But I've good news as well - I know how we'll fit you in." Ned gave him a slightly sad grin.

"You're the boys uncle - his mother died in childbirth. Both of these have at least some truth - were it not for… Brandon and my Father's deaths, I hoped to marry your sister anyways. Your kingsguard armor will have to be hidden away with the rest - I'll give the chest to Jon when I tell him the truth - but rest assured that you'll still be known as the boy's sworn sword. A promise made to his mother before she died." Ned looked up. "While we are heading to Starfall… I think we need to decide the matter of your blade."

Arthur, who'd been listening intently to the Lord Stark, perked up. "I see. And what do you plan to do with it?" Arthur was fond of his blade, aye, it had saved it a thousand and one times, but he was willing to give it up for his King. "Well, I was thinking that we should give it to your sister - return it to her. If we kept it, it'd seem suspicious. Or… we could put it in the chest with the rest of the things. Riskier, but I imagine you're quite attached to the blade." Arthur nodded his head at Ned's words. "The blade has served me well, but I will do whatever it takes to ensure Jahaerys reaches majority." Ned nodded his head. "Then it shall be done. Though it would be best if you do not call the boy by his real name so much." Arthur agreed with this, though he knew the boy would have to learn his heritage at some point.

The preparations made, the nine rode out, the nursemaid Wylla with them. They had ten horses in all, with one serving as a storage for the chest of heirlooms. Not much happened the first day of riding - save for Mark Ryswell and Willam Dustin bickering about which Northern house produced the best warhorses - Dustin arguing for Barrowton and Martyn arguing for the Rills. The second day was too hot for speaking, and everyone wore tunics and breeches rather than leather finery in the sweltering heat.

By the third day, his ancestral home of Starfall came into view. Arthur felt a swelling in his chest - would he get to see his niece or nephew and sister ever again after this? As they hailed at the front gates and, after a few minutes time, were allowed in, Arthur took in the sight of his former home. _My home is wherever my King calls home._ They moved their horses to the stables, handing them off to the stableboy - he looked a lot like their former stablehand, now Master of Horse Torrhen. _How much have I missed?_ Arthur hoped his disguise would hold up - he had cut his shoulder length hair and grown a beard, and without dawn and his Kingsguard armor he was much harder to recognize. As their group milled about, waiting for summons from his sister, they discussed whose home was better defended.

"Barrowton has five hundred knights, three thousand archers and men at arms, and sturdy wooden walls with four ballistae." Willam Dustin boasted, looking smug.

"Deepwood Motte is surrounded by thick forests, with sturdy wooden walls and three huge galleys defending it's harbors." Ethan Glover said, a proud look upon his face.

At that, the crannogman grinned. "You can boast of your walls and weapons, but Greywater Watch always moves - it's only ever been sieged once, by Torgheld Stark!" The normally quiet crannogman looked proud of his home. As the group devolved into bickering, a messenger ran up. "The Lady Ashara requests Lord Stark and his companion," the boy pointed at Arthur, "In her solar. I can take you there if you like," the boy proffered. Ned nodded his head, and the boy beckoned to follow as he entered the keep and ran up the stairs. Arthur knew all this layout, but he played his part, looking around uncertainly as he climbed the stairs and made his way to the solar.

His sister was sitting at a chair, looking out the window and mulling over a cup of wine. She was evidently not pregnant, but Arthur saw no babe - he assumed it was with the nursemaids. His sister looked over and a sad smile came over her face. "Hello, Ned. Hello, Arthur." Arthur gave a short look of shock before calming himself. "Oh, please, you barely made an effort to hide yourself - cutting your hair, growing a beard, that makes no matter. I'm your sister, of course I'd recognize you. I am glad to see you, however." his sister stood up, putting down the wine and moving to the door, closing it. "I… I lost the babe. Brandon's babe. I labored for a day and a half to bring her into this world and she died before I could look upon her. Then I heard word - one of my handmaids in King's Landing had sent me a letter telling me the King had received word of yours and Lyanna's death."

His sister was looking demurely at the tapestry on the wall, showing Arwyn Dayne wielding Dawn against a thousand enemies. "I refused to believe it was true… It wasn't, thank the gods, but if it had been… I do not know what I would have done, Mayhaps I'd have thrown myself from the cliff." She paused looking between the two men. "Now, you've come on some business. What is it?" Arthur shuffled a little, uncertain how to start.

"Well, I'm here to return Dawn. Then I head North, with Ned… I plan to serve my new King and protect him." Ashara looked up, unsurprised - Arthur had sent word about the babe in their childhood code a few months before. "I see. I had hoped, if only a little, that you might come and help me rule. I do not feel fit to rule." Arthur gave her a look of confusion. "Should not Alyn be sitting the throne?" Ashara shook her head. "Just before mother died a few months ago, he was beset by a pox of some sort - he's been bedridden, but getting better."

Ned, who had been standing uncomfortably for a time now, cleared his throat. "My Lady of Starfall, I came to return the ancestral blade of house Dayne and to request something of you," Ashara looked up, interest piqued. "My sister, Lyanna, she needs a funeral procession to bring her North. Can you spare ten men to help us bring her North?" Ashara mulled this over, looking out at the yard. "I can and I shall. You'll have your men, lord stark, and some of my Sand Steeds to help bring her with you. Lyanna was fond of horseback riding, as I recall. She would love my steeds." Ashara pulled herself to the window and called for her master of arms to come up. A few minutes later, the man entered, bowing.

"Yes, my lady?" the man had a look of questioning on his face. "I need ten men saddled up as soon as you can get. Sand steeds, preferably. They'll follow Lord Stark, to take his sister north." After that, they all left the solar, leaving Ashara.

It took them less time to get back to the tower, with the steeds freshly watered. The sand steeds were graceful creatures, speeding across the dunes with incredible speed. They made in in a day and a half, returning to the tower, likely for the last time. After getting Lyanna, they began their journey south and east, to Sunspear to take a ship. Along the journey, Mark Ryswell got into no less than three arguments about horses, and there were two brawls between them when Willem inevitably insulted the Rillman's horses. Other than that, Arthur and Ned got to know each other further, speaking of their pasts and their experience of the war.

There was a question biting at the back of Arthur's mind. One night, he finally asked it, while watching Mark and Willem rolling around in the sand squawking about horses. "Ned, what do you plan to tell your wife about the babe?" The boy was in Wylla's arms, cooing at her and reaching for her hair with a look of delight. Ned thought it over. "I was thinking of just telling her it's my bastard." Arthur turned to stare at Ned. "That's a terrible idea." Ned gave him a look of confusion. "Your wife will treat her rightful King like dirt unless you tell her. Make her swear to secrecy, but whatever you do, don't just lie to her. When the truth comes out - and it inevitably will - she will be even more mad at you for lying to her and causing her to treat her nephew like dirt."

Ned nodded his head. "How did you come to be on the Kingsguard, anyways?" Arthur looked up and over. "I was nineteen when I joined the Kingsguard of Aerys Targaryen. I was secondborn, and my mother kept offering me marriages - choices I didn't want. I was a good swordsman, though, and declared Sword of the Morning. When Aerys offered to let me be part of his Kingsguard, I jumped at the chance. I found out I was serving a madman not long after, but I had sworn my vows, and I had to keep them… and so I did, as my king burnt men and women and children to death for the smallest of crimes. Rhaegar… there was a man worthy of being king, though, and I kept waiting as he worked to depose Aerys. Had he not come to the tourney of Harrenhal… well, mayhaps things would be different. But I have a new King now, and I must needs serve him to my dying breath."

Ned nodded thoughtfully at Arthur's story. "All I ever hoped for was a good marriage and a keep to call my own. My brother Brandon was meant to be Lord of Winterfell, not me. I am not fit to rule, as he was." Ned took on a saddened look, remembering his brother and father. "Though I loved my siblings, Rickard… he may have been my sire, but Jon Arryn was more of a father to me than he ever was. He taught me honor and duty and justness. And yet, I still mourn my father. He did love me, even if he did not raise me himself." Ned looked over at the two panting Northmen, both sporting a number of bruises and bloodied bits. "Best we all get some sleep. We'll be reaching Sunspear by the morrow. I'll take first watch." Ned picked up his sword and moved away from the fire, taking up his watch.

He had not moved by the time Arthur fell asleep an hour later.


	3. The Oathbound Knight

The Oathbound Knight

As the sun dawned on a new day, warming the air considerably, Arthur continued to polish his sword. It was no Dawn, and he was unused to using a sword that needed sharpening, but he continued his work. He ran a hand through his hair, looking about. His travelling companions began to rouse themselves. Ned was the first up, changing into fineries as they neared Sunspear - he had some misguided ambition to bring Dorne back into the fold for his friend, who he appeared no longer angry at for allowing the murder of Rhaegar's babes to go unpunished. Arthur watched as the two competitive horsemen, Mark Ryswell and Willem Dustin, got up. They groaned, rubbing their sore bruised and examining their split lips. Wylla rose next, picking up the bundled babe - removing his heavier cloth swaddling blanket and replacing it with a silk one instead to help with the heat - and began to warm some food over the dwindling fire.

By the time they saddled up an hour later, Jon had begun to coo loudly and look around. They rode off, and arrived at Sunspear an hour and a half later, give or take. Arthur marvelled at the sight of the castle, spotting the Water Gardens where he had played with Oberyn Martell and Elia as a child when his mother came to visit the Princess. Arthur's heart saddened at the thought of Elia - she had been one of his childhood friends, and when he was naught but seven namedays old, he had plucked a wildflower for her and given it to her. She had kissed him on the cheek for it. _I thought I had forgotten that…_ Of course, his sister had chosen that time to call him Florian the Fool. Mayhaps he had been. If he had asked his mother about marrying Elia, mayhaps she would be alive still. _Dwelling on the past gets you no-where, and dwelling on women is even worse, as Oberyn would say._

They rode into Sunspear at that point, and passed bustling bazaars, the port of Sunspear, and a great deal of suspicious alleyways. But Ned was on a mission, not wanting to buy any trinkets. They met with the castellan and were granted permission to pass, albeit reluctantly. They moved over to the stables, but before they could halt and unhorse, Ned turned. "Alright. You five," he pointed at everyone but Arthur, "Go book us passage on a ship to White Harbor. Then go have a rest, enjoy some Dornishwomen. I'm going to be meeting with the Martells with Alaric." That had been the name they'd chosen - after all, he couldn't go gallivanting about as Arthur Dayne, could he? No, he was Alaric Monfred, uncle to Jon 'Snow'. His thoughts were interrupted by the castellan approaching. "Prince Doran will see to you now in the Hall."

They entered the hall which, of course, was made of sandstone, as much of the castle was. Though candles and torches worked to remove the gloom of the hall, all Arthur could see was memories of days gone past. Doran looked much as Arthur expected - getting older, with his daughter Arianne watching intently nearby, and Oberyn stood in the shadows watching interestedly. "Welcome, Lord Stark. Bread and salt?" Though the words were kind enough, his tone was icy, much more like the Wall in the North than the warmth of Dorne. A servant brought out a platter with the two, and Ned sprinkled some salt on the bread before taking a bite. "What business brings you here? And who is this?" Doran's eyes flicked over Arthur, but if he recognized him, he showed no signs of it.

"I have the honor to be Alaric Monfred, my Lord." Arthur imitated a northern Red Mountains accent as best he could - the differences were subtle, which made it difficult. "I am the uncle to the newly born boy of Lord Eddard's. Doran's eyebrows piqued with interest. "You do not have the look of the Tully about you, and I believe the lad Benjen is at the Wall. Tell me, Lord Stark, how is he related to you?"

Ned shifted uncomfortably under the older man's gaze, a battle of solemn faces and steely gazes that Ned lost. "A mistake I made. I have come into the care of a newlyborn boy after his mother died in childbirth. The mother swore Ser Alaric to protect him." Arthur nodded his head in affirmation. Doran nodded his head. "But I have come, Prince Doran, because I wish to speak to you about bringing you back into the King's peace. The war is over, and Robert is not unkind to his former enemies." Doran scoffed. "What could you possibly offer me Lord Stark, that your foster father Jon Arryn has not?" Ned regained his composure. "Peace. If you continue to refuse, you will be seen as rebels. Robert will take an affront to this and attempt to crush you." Doran smiled. "Attempt, aye, but Dorne was never conquered by swords." Ned shook his head. "I know. But if you refuse and continue to do so, you will be condemning thousands of good men to death."

Doran considered these words. At this point Arthur felt as useless to the conversation as nipples on a breastplate, so he exited the Hall, heading for the training grounds. It seemed Oberyn had followed him, a grin upon his face like a cat with a mouse. "Ser Alaric. Would you consider sparring with me?" Arthur nodded, deciding it would be more trouble than it was worth to refuse. He picked up a blunted tourney sword. The balance was good, which was well enough for Arthur - he'd fought with worse and came out alive. Oberyn picked up a spear and they went into the ring. The two circled one another for a while, occasionally sending out a swift jab to catch each other off guard. Arthur had to limit himself to prevent suspicion. When Oberyn made the first move, deftly moving forward and jabbing, Arthur saw it coming and his instincts screamed to immediately parry and disarm him. Instead Arthur dodged as slow as he could manage without being hit, rolling to the side.

Arthur struck out with his sword, feinting on the right while hacking at Oberyn's legs. As predicted, Oberyn jumped, dodging it, and jabbed at Arthur. He hated this feeling of not being able to use his full power. He could disarm Oberyn in twenty seconds flat. But instead they continued playing cat and mouse, jabbing and slicing and dodging. At one point Arthur purposefully made his defence weak, allowing Oberyn to get a hit on his side. Arthur moved as swiftly as he could, catching the shaft of the spear and pulling Oberyn forward. Oberyn let go of the spear, regaining his footing and pulling out two knives, whipping them around. Arthur searched for a weakness in his defences. Oberyn had a glaring weakness, and Arthur knew he was trying to pull him in. He struck out like a viper, but it was a feint. He whipped his blade around and caught Oberyn at the legs. Oberyn tumbled to the ground, but before Arthur could press his advantage Oberyn had rolled backwards and back onto his feet, grabbing the discarded spear.

They circled once more, searching for weaknesses. Arthur moved slowly, trying his hardest to seem a competent but lacking swordsman. Oberyn's strikes were becoming lazier, almost taunting him. Arthur decided to end the match once and for all. He whipped his blade at Oberyn, who dodged with simple grace. Oberyn was not expecting Arthur to toss his sword at Oberyn. It was a last ditch effort, but Arthur rolled forward, grabbing one of the dropped daggers. Oberyn was beginning to turn when Arthur kicked at the back of his knee. With that, it was simple enough to grab him into a hold and put the knife to his back. Oberyn merely grinned. "Well done, Arthur." Arthur's look of shock did not faze him. "I was uncertain at first, but even while you were purposefully slowing yourself I could see the grace behind it. Besides, I don't often forget a man I've wanted to fuck, and I never forget a man who has bested me in battle. You, my old friend, are both." Arthur's grip had loosened by then, and Oberyn ducked and rolled out of it. "It was a good fight. Even when you were barely fighting I was still having trouble. Tell me something, Arthur, why do you ride with the Northman? Why not return to your sister at Starfall?" Arthur gave him a look of sadness. "Redemption, I suppose." Oberyn opened his mouth to ask more, but Arthur left no more room for discussion as he exited.

A few days after that, they set sail for the North. Arthur could only think of Oberyn's questions. What vows remained? Why fight for a deposed line? _I suppose, in the end, it is redemption for failing to save my best friend._


	4. The Lost Griffin, The Quiet Wolf

_The Lost Griffin_

 _I failed the father, but I shall not fail the son._ The carrack swayed upon the open ocean, and once again Jon's thoughts began to drift, the sounds of orders making their way through the ship's upper decking slowly becoming muddled. The Septa was on a bunk nearby, with the Heir in hand. _Aegon. A fitting name for the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. The lad's cries are strong. I expect he'll make a fine warrior one day._ The babe was aught more than a nameday and a half. They had been delayed heavily and had to head south to avoid Stannis' patrols. More ships were being added to the fleet as time passed. _The fool,_ Jon thought, _He's going after Dragonstone for the remaining Dragons when the one he's searching for is here._ Of course, Varys' had done an excellent job - he had found a babe of roughly the same size. _A good fortune to our cause that that bastard Clegane bashed the decoy until he was unrecognizable._

He was saddened at the line of thought. Elia had been a sweet lady, and had she been able to bear another a child none of this mess would have happened. But the Gods play a cruel game, and Rhaegar ran off with the Wolf. _And now the greatest line to ever hold the Seven Kingdoms has been forced into exile._ Rhaenys, too, had been stabbed near a hundred times. _I swear upon all the gods, when we return I will have Amory Lorch tortured to death._ Rhaenys had been such a sweet, kind girl. Though she favored her mother's colorings, there had been Rhaegar in there too. She had a sweet singing voice, like honey in summer. He had been like an uncle to her, and she was a sweetheart to the end. Cowering under her bed with her kitten, murdered in cold blood. _I hope that kitten lives. It would be good to see that thing raise hell upon the Usurper and his dogs._

What an utterly awful situation. Jon had failed his silver prince. He should have razed Stoney Sept to the ground for harboring the Rebel Usurper, and instead he had shown mercy. _Now the greatest Targaryen to live lies dead in the Trident._ Suddenly, the boy began to squall, evidently hungry once more. Jon smiled wanly, and left the chambers. He made his way onto the main deck, where men were rushing about preparing for the storm ahead. He turned to the captain, who was keeping an eye on the men. "Captain, Whereabouts are we?" The captain turned at his question.

"If my charts are right… Twelve leagues off the stepstones. Though you needn't worry about pirates; they've been out of commission for a while now." The captain nodded his head at the aft storage. "If needbe, we got plenty of bows to fend em off. Most pirates, they go fer the slaver cogs those Mereenese send out." The captain looked fairly sure of himself. Jon was wracking his brain. He'd had a few reports from Tarth during his handship, but he'd been so preoccupied with the war he'd hardly read it. Something about a Sallador fellow who was trying to unite the Stepstones. Of course, there were about twenty 'kings' of the Stepstones so he hadn't bothered with him, but who knew?

An hour later, Jon was running around the deck assisting the men. They were finishing preparations for the storm when a great shape appeared in the foggy rain of the storm. _What in the Seven hells?_ The captain began to shout, "Pirates on port! Arm yourselves!" With an experienced but rusty way about them, the sailors began to move to the fore and aft storage rooms, grabbing daggers, bows, and quivers of arrows. Though they were not as efficient as the Summer Island ships, there was a certain grace to the men. Jon felt a sudden sense of horror wash over him as another ship, and then a third joined them. The largest was front and center, roughly the size of a mid-line galley. The other two were smaller in size, but looked no less fierce. The galley and it's supporting ships approached. A man stood at the fore, dressed in Myrish silk, with white hair and two fine daggers at his hips.

The man flashed a toothy grin. "Hello! My name is Salladhor Saan. Prepare to die!"

 _The Quiet Wolf_

 _The Fair Maid_ made good time. Though they had to cut through the Stepstones, they deftly evaded the Stepstone pirates and continued north. They passed the gorgeous Stormlander countryside, through the Sapphire Straits - a choice name, as the water appeared to be the same color as a Sapphire. Ned could feel nothing but sadness. War would likely come to Dorne. Would the Northerners support heading South once more? He did not know. Arthur had been melancholic ever since they had passed through Sunspear. _Perhaps he is reflecting on those he could not save, just as I am. The ghosts of the past haunt us all._

Ned dreaded his arrival at King's Landing the most. Varys would try to get any information he could out of Ned, through conversation or spies. _The Spider is an apt nickname. He gets through the smallest crack in a wall and he's a pest. If he didn't know all the secrets in the Kingdoms he'd have his head lopped off by now._ Ned looked pointedly at Jon's room, where Arthur stood vigil. _Not all of them, I pray._ Ned hoped to keep the boy's secret safe. _The less that know, the better._

The Stormlands, though ruggedly beautiful, were largely unpopulated - there was a single town, the Weeping Town, which had been little more than a wooden walled hamlet with a few docks. But The Crownlands, there was a place with populous towns - the many estuaries of the Blackwater provided good spots for towns, with Maidenpool to the North, Duskendale to the East, and King's Landing in the center. More population meant it was more likely there were spies afoot. Still, they sailed yet.

The next day, after a good wind helped them along, they reached King's Landing. Ned had been there a scarce few times, and it was always the stench that stuck with him the most. A few hundred thousand people dumping their waste into the streets or river created a Gods-awful stench which permeated the air. Arthur looked uncomfortable with the stench, but he had been accustomed to the smell when serving on the Kingsguard. They slowly made their way to dock, putting their board down. Ned sent a messenger ahead while he prepared for his meeting. Slipping on a doublet with a gray velvet and a darker grey wolf, Ned washed his head as best he could. When he was ready, he called for Jon and Wylla. Arthur nodded, though he was evidently disappointed he would not be protecting the babe. The rest of his companions were either nursing bruises or seasick, so they stayed behind.

They made their way to the Red Keep with little trouble, though Ned had to dodge a man dropping his waste onto the street. The guards let them in with little trouble, and Ned noted the Lannister crest. _This does not bode well._ He entered the Great Hall, where Robert sat upon the Throne. He was dealing with a minor lord's dispute with a merchant, evidently, and looked bored out of his skull. Ned saw the way his face looked and knew he had to be at least three cups into his wine. When Robert saw him, his face brightened a little. "Right, off you go. Ned! Gods, you are a sight for sore eyes. I, ah, I received your letter from Sunspear. I, ah, I'm sorry about Lyanna. Who's the lass?" He nodded at Wylla.

"She is my nursemaid Wylla. She has been helping me care for my bastard." Robert laughed jovially. "The stoic Ned got a bastard on a Dornish wench! Next you'll be telling me sows can float!" Robert laughed, and beckoned to a servant to bring him two cups of wine. "What is the boy's name?" Ned looked at Robert. "Jon Snow." Robert grinned at that. "A fine name for the boy! Jon has been quite useful to me. If he weren't in Dorne trying to negotiate peace I wouldn't have to sit on that ugly chair." Robert saw the servant returning with his wine and rushed over. As Ned waited for him to return, he smelt a perfume that stank worse than the city. The sound of slippered feet shuffling on the floor alerted him to the presence of the Master of Whispers. "Hello, Lord Eddard."

"Hello, Varys."

 **A/N Cliffhanger, I know. Another chapter should be up in a couple days.**


	5. The Wounded Griffin, The Stag's Friend

_The Wounded Griffin_

Jon could feel the cuts upon his body grow in number with each fight. How many had fallen, four, five? He could not know, did not know. Another pirate scowled at him, charging with an ax in hand. Jon could barely raise his shield any longer, so he focused on his sword, sidestepping the clumsy charge and stabbing at the man. His chainmail hauberk had been all he could slip on before the fighting had begun in earnest, and it was pockmarked with blood. Another stain fell upon it as the pirate who had charged wailed, tipping over with the sword still in him and falling overboard. _Damn,_ thought Jon, _that was a castle forged blade._ Jon pulled forth his dagger, and watched as a big hulking brute walked up to him, two long dirks in hand and a devillish grin upon his face. Bodies were strewn behind him, a trail of steel and blood. The large man jabbed at Jon, who sidestepped it, and barely managed to pull his shield up before the second dagger struck out like a viper.

 _Honor has no meaning in this battle._ Jon let that guide him as he stamped on the man's foot, kneed him in the groin and, when he went to bellow in rage, Jon shut him up with a dagger to the underside of his throat. He roared no further, collapsing to the ground as Jon retrieved his dagger. He surveyed the battle momentarily, noting that though his own side had taken heavy casualties in the early fighting, the men had rallied to their captain and were fighting tooth and nail against the pirates. Jon kicked a man overboard, almost tumbling himself with the stamina it took from him. The pirate numbers were thinning, though a few archers were on the galley firing at will. Jon could not focus on this, as another warrior roared, a spear in hand. _Moron doesn't even realize you need shorter weapons for naval combat._ It was simple to step away from the jab of the spear. Jon kicked the man in the knee, and he groaned in horror, watching as Jon straddled him and bashed his head in with his shield. Jon heard a shriek of death and turned, watching the pirate lord.

Salladhor was like a graceful angel of the Warrior, twisting and twirling this way and that, stabbing and jabbing at his opponents. Jon moved forward slowly, surely, dodging and weaving through the combat. _I must kill him, kill the head of the snake and the body shrivels and dies…_ Jon's legs were numb with pain and soreness, but he managed the strength to keep stepping along. Salla barely gave him a side glance, simply nodding to one of his men, and the warrior rushed at Jon. Were it not for the captain, he would have been killed, unable to fight back, but the man was a devil on the deck, an ax in one hand and a dirk in another. As the pirate focused on Jon, the Captain made his move, kicking out the back of the man's legs and splitting his skull with the ax.

Salladhor turned, a cruel grin upon his face. "Had you just given up and gave me your goods, I would have given you a quick death. But now that you've gone and fought back, all of you will have your fingers pulled from your hands one by one and fed to you." _This man is mad,_ Jon thought, _I must kill him._ Jon was just steps away, all it would take was a single stab at the neck, that was all. Salladhor was fighting a particularly skilled man, who was matching his flurry of dagger blows with his shield and long knife. Jon felt the leaden weight of the dagger in his hands. One more step… a sudden white hot knife of pain jabbed into his side, burning with the fires of a thousand suns. _I will not die, not yet, I must protect Aegon to my last…_ That gave him the will to step forward, though his legs were like lead. Pulling up the dagger, Jon sucked in what he was sure was his last breath and croaked, "For Aegon!" It was quick, a single stab in the back of the neck of this pirate lord, and he was dead. _He was such a formidable fighter and all it took was a single stab..._ Jon collapsed to his knees and looked at the origin of the pain. An arrow was protruding from his side, and Jon snapped the shaft off before collapsing. An inky blackness took him over, and it was almost like sleep…

 _The Stag's Friend_

Ned could not help but feel his skin crawl at the sight of Varys. What did the eunuch know? How much had he learned already? Ned could not help but wonder. His attention snapped back to Robert, who was finishing his thought, "...had hoped she would live, but the Old Lion has already put forth a marriage offer and I would like their support. The Wedding shall be in two weeks time." Ned nodded at the thought, sipping a tiny amount of the wine Robert had offered him to be polite.

"I do not like the Lannisters, to be true, but I will respect your wishes, Robert." He had grown attached to Jon, and the thought of what the Lannisters had done to two of the Targaryen babes had made his skin crawl. Ned looked at Barristan Selmy, who was standing in a corner looking gloomy. "I also cannot stay for the wedding. I have matters to attend to in the North. The Ironborn are raiding more and more, from what Maester Luwin tells me. And… I want to see my heir, Robb." Robert nodded his head solemnly. "At least you chose a good name for the lad! Why, he'll probably grow to be stout and strong like me." Robert guffawed. Varys had said nothing thus far, but he looked like he'd found himself a hen that laid silver eggs - smug as the seven hells. _Speaking of eggs…_

He'd told no one in his party save for Arthur about the black egg speckled with flecks of grey he'd found amongst Jon's heirlooms. It had been cold as ice, and he'd taken it for a stone until he noticed the membranes scaling about it. _I should not have been surprised - I'd heard that all of the Targaryens had an egg of their own, but I was._ Ned walked over to the window and looked to the port. There, three ships down, was where the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, as Arthur called him, lay sleeping. Robert was talking to one of his small council members about something. Ned pulled himself away from the window. "If I have your leave, your Grace." Robert nodded his head, and Ned made to move out of the room. Varys watched silently, his smug expression still unchanged.

Lord Stark rode down to the docks on one of the horses Robert had provided him, his Stark sigil proudly emblazoned on his chest. As he moved past Flea Bottom, he noted the sallow faces of the people, the still grieving mothers and fathers, the flocks of orphans running around the street. All of this because of Tywin Lannister, who had allowed thousands to be put to the sword. _There will be justice for all those killed. Tywin Lannister will recieve his just retribution._ Still, he could not shake the feeling that he had helped cause this by allowing delays in their march south to King's Landing. The port reached into view, and Ned rode towards the Fair Maiden.

Ned arrived safely at the ship they'd been sailing in, and checked up on Arthur and Jon. Arthur looked attentive at his post, albeit a little bored. Jon was asleep, his dark hair matted about his small head. He looked so peaceful, sleeping. Wylla was taking the free moment to sleep. Ned felt a pleasant feeling of warmth looking upon the boy. Whether he was Rhaegar's get or not, he was Ned's son. Ned returned to his room and finally cracked open the book he'd been meaning to read the past two years, and he was still reading when there was a knock on the door and a pattering of feet. Ned opened the door and saw nothing, so he shrugged and went to return to the book when he saw a scrap of parchment on the floor. Ned felt a wave of dread wash over him as he picked up the parchment with trembling fingers.

 _I know about the boy and his sworn sword. We really should talk about this, and the boy's future…_

 **A/n And there's a chapter! Hope you all enjoyed. Please review.**


	6. The Wolf

**A/N Ten thousand views! Thank you all for your support. Sorry for the wait, I've been having a lot of homework and been trawling through Breath of the Wild.**

 _The Wolf_

Ned watched the great mouth of the Trident and it's many estuaries in the Bay of Crabs. _Up that river is my wife's homeland._ The boy was resting quietly in the hands of Wylla, and Arthur had gone off to re-dye his hair. It was a chestnut brown now - They'd procured the dye at Starfall. Varys had been displeased when Ned declined to meet immediately - he had business in the North, he'd said, and he needed to take care of some raids on the western coast. But he had agreed to meet within a year to discuss the boy's future. The boy was not showing particularly Targaryen traits - though Ned had yet to test for heat resistance or, gods forbid, fire immunity. Ned had done some minor reading on Valyrian traits and, though uncommon, fire immunity was one of them. Intriguingly, this was linked to a Valyrian's capability to tame a dragon - the more fire resistant, the more likely they were to be able to bond with a dragon.

Ned watched the ship slowly trawl it's way past the Bay of Crabs. A small town on the coast came into view, with a few docks. This was no Gulltown, of course - the Captain reported they were nearing Fairbrook - Ned saw the stream come into view now, a few poleboats dawdling about and three fisher's boats moored. Ned was reminded of a small town he and Brandon had ventured to on the west coast of the North at the stout age of four and ten and seven and ten respectively. The place was small, having been raided numerous times over the years, but the folk were stout and hardy, good at what they did. Ned had gotten his foxfur cloak there, which he still had and hoped to pass on to Robb along with Ice.

It was an hour and a half later by Ned's estimate when they came upon the burning village. The captain wanted to pass it by - he said it was most like just some mountain clansmen's work, but Ned had seen mountain clansmen. The village, while burnt, still had women and men living there, huddled under the burnt husks of homes. It was a solemn sight indeed, which was why Ned wanted to stop and investigate. Arthur agreed reluctantly, and they made their way ashore by use of a smaller raft. They'd paid the captain twenty dragons for his trouble, too. Arthur was swift in his determinations. "Bandit party of mayhaps twenty to thirty, came in from the northeast and ran off… west, maybe northwest. Difficult to tell as yet. We should ask about the village." The villagers looked sullen, and the elder was a man of sixty-five, who seemed distraught. They made their way towards him.

He looked up, and his distraught look cleared up slightly. "Sers, please, help us. Three nights ago a group of bandits raided our village, slaughtering our guards and running off with our grain. At harvest, we had eight and fifty working men and at least six hundred bushels of wheat. Now we have aught but fifteen. Worse, they've made off with our cattle!" The elder looked out over the faces of his villagers. "Please, we've little for goods to give, but if you could help us clear out the bandits, we'd forever be in your debt!" Ned nodded solemnly. "We shall, ser." Arthur concurred as well. "Where did these bandits head off to?" The elder pointed a shaky finger northwest. "No more than a day's ride in that direction." They had no horses, but the Elder pointed them in the direction of a stables - unaffected by the bandits as yet. They reboarded the ship and went in an easterly direction, though the Captain grumbled about delays. They passed the lower foothills of the Mountains of the Moon. It was difficult to tell in the waning dusk, but Ned swore he saw multiple foothills with outcroppings of jet black stone.

…

It took them a day and a half to barter for two garrons and ride them back to the village, and after camping out for the night, they found signs of bandit activity - smoke, tracks, and the occasional bloodied corpse. They followed the tracks for quite some time, passing by two hunters who had their bows unstrung and were peppered with a few arrows each. Arthur scowled at the sight and spurred his horse forward. They came upon a clearing with about twenty-five men milling about, enjoying roast lamb and a dark rye bread, swinging rusted and bloodied swords at each other, all in mismatched armor. One of them had a kettle helm and a chainmail hauberk, ordering the others about. "Torgheld, you better get me some more ale or I'll cut you bloody." The man in question grunted and muttered, making his way to a cask and beginning to fill the mug he'd been handed.

Ned turned to Arthur, wondering what he'd do. Arthur made it easy to tell, hopping down from his horse. His darkened hair was covered by a mail coif, his body clad in a gambeson with an overcoat of boiled leather. He wore no gloves, though he had bracers of a thick and tough leather. His legs were protected with some sturdy shinguards made of steel, and strapped at his side was his broadsword. Upon his back was a thick oak shield banded in steel, painted in a chequy purple and white. He looked like a hedge knight in full. Ned was bedecked in the traditional Stark armor - light plate and warm furs. He had left Ice behind at the ship in favor of a longsword and heater shield. Ned followed Arthur's suit, hopping down himself and readying his weapon and shield. They stepped out from the cover of the trees into the clearing and, slowly but surely, the bandits noticed them. The veritable leader meandered over, evidently drunk. "Ah, I see the exploits of our brotherhood in that pissant village to the south attracted some new recruits…" Arthur tensed. "And what is this brotherhood you speak of? I've heard tales, but names are scarce."

The drunken man grinned. "Why, we're the Tolleck Brotherhood! We don't claim no silly ideals about chivalry like those sods in that Kingswood Brotherhood. Right good, too, since those stupid cunts got cut down like lambs to the slaughter by Arthur Dayne." The man paused, looking at the both of them. "You look familiar… like how that wolf fellow was described, the one who worships the barbarian gods." He peered at Ned thoughtfully. Too deep in his drink and observations, he never saw the sword lash out. In a mere second the man's throat was cut. The fighting took a few moments to begin before starting in earnest. Men in mismatched armor rushed at Ned and Arthur, bellowing and hacking wildly. Arthur, for his part, was efficient and ruthless, cutting down man after man with barely any effort at all. Ned was having more trouble - he was fighting against three at once, but to his benefit, the men struck at him wildly, uncoordinated. Ned sidestepped a thrust, cutting the man deeply in his thigh - blood began to gush forward, and the man shrieked. Another one hacked at him with a butcher's cleaver, and Ned rolled out of the way, stabbing the man in the calf and then his neck when he collapsed. Arthur had cut down at least twelve men in this time, working on his thirteenth and fourteenth. Three men remained, backing away slowly and desperately dodging Ned and Arthur's combined assault. Ned saw that one of the men had a poor stance, too ungrounded. He swept his leg out, and when the man fell he hit his head upon a stone and died, just like that.

Arthur struck at one of the men with his sword, but the man narrowly dodged, fleeing as swiftly as his stubby legs could take him. The other, cornered by a couple of casks of ale and the two men, began to beg for mercy. "Please, sers, I never meant to do no wrong, but we was just tired of living like dirt while the highborn folk got to feast upon spiced meats and breads." The man was weeping now, with a cut across his abdomen. Arthur simply frowned and shook his head. "And yet you chose to rob from other smallfolk and kill them." Then, before the bandit could reply, Arthur cut his throat. "A day of bloodshed indeed. But with a few more terrible folk off this earth, it was worth it in the end." Ned nodded in agreement, his adrenaline wearing off and giving way to an overwhelming feeling of tiredness and the pain of some cuts he had sustained. "Weren't even worth a good fight. Come, Ned, let's return to the village. I could use a nice straw bed." Arthur nodded to the horses, and Ned nodded, though he paused to watch. _Such carnage… like upon the banks of the Trident._ Memories of steel upon steel, as well as rubies flying through the wind, came forth to Ned's mind. _Perhaps he would have made a good king, better than Aerys by any rate. But there's no knowing now._

 _ **A/n A longer Ned chapter here - next chapter we'll see what has become of JonCon and also get a glimpse of Dragonstone.**_


	7. The Removed Hand, The Queen on a Rock

**A/N Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait on this chapter - I've been dealing with some major writer's block and got tied up in a plot line that i ended up deleting. Without further ado, here is the next chapter!**

 _The Removed Hand_

Everything ached. _Pain… who knew dying was so painful?_ Jon would have been content to lay there until a voice spoke to him. "Jon? You awake?" Jon strained, finally opening his eyes. He felt weak as a newborn babe. Yellow spots lined his vision, and he whimpered slightly. Septa Lemore bent over him, a pitcher of watered wine in hand. She had a wooden mug in hand, and was pouring some wine into it. "For the pain," she explained. Jon shuddered, letting out a wracking cough. Spittle and blood came forth. He had to ask the question, feverish on his mind. "Ae...Aegon. The boy?" Septa Lemore simply put the cup to his lips. He drank deeply, focusing on the wine rather than the chalky taste. "Aegon is fine. You, however, are not. You received a deep wound to your side, and a rather nasty cut to your hand. The apothecary on board did his best and managed to patch up your side, but your hand… well," she shrugged sadly. Jon forced himself to pull his head up, to look down upon his arm. A stump presented itself to him where his sword arm should have been. There was a cutting sense of irony. _Removed my hand and my position of Hand._ He would have laughed, had he not been wracked with pain. "Sleep now, Lord Connington. We are a few days away from Pentos." Jon wanted to keep himself awake, to keep focused, but he was aleady passing into the realm of sleep.

Jon found himself standing in a place he did not recognize. As far as the eye could see, wisps of smoky warmth were shrouded in a cold, silent snowstorm. He lifted his hands and saw nothing but frigid ice and deep banks of snow. Before him, two infernos of red, orange, and tints of white flashed and flickered in tandem. He heard sounds, almost like voices but not quite. The warmth fled from Jon when he saw a strange thing, icy and cold, with great blue flames where the thing's eyes should have been. A flash of the right flame extending itself was all he saw before the thing dissipated into smoky cold. Sounds were becoming clearer - he could hear shrieks, though whether that was the piercing wind or men dying he could not tell. A great bellowing sound heralded the arrival of a smoky figure, and Jon was suddenly enveloped in fog. The dream shifted, distorted, but the image was clearer now. Jon could make out fires, thousands of them, near a river. Wisps and spectres the color of silver clashed against other spectres, a sickly yellow color instead. Shrieks and cries of pain could be heard, and Jon watched with horror as two of the larger wisps clashed, one slamming into the other. Was this the Trident come again to haunt him? Jon had not been on the field itself, or he would have gladly died for his silver prince, but the ghastly reports had been enough.

Again, the image shifted. This time, Jon saw a man clad in smoky plate armor fighting with an equally smoky sword. _Valyrian steel?_ Jon wondered at the sight, as the man in the armor fought alongside another man with such intense skill that he kept the enemies at bay. The enemies started to come into focus too, taking ghastlier forms, shrieking and wailing as they charged. Jon wanted to fight with the men, for some odd reason, but with a start he woke up.

The first thing he noticed was that he was not in the same cabin he had been in. In fact, he no longer swayed at all with the ship. The roof seemed to be made of a cream colored stone, with an oaken door. Jon, lurched to his feet and nearly collapsed. Breathing deeply, Jon forced himself to stand, inch by inch. Sitting down upon his bed, he examined his surroundings. His window, the sole one in the room, was closed with shutters. Jon's only source of light was a solitary candle nearby. On a side table was a platter of roast goose with butter and pease, boar sliced thinly covered in a rich sauce, duck evenly roasted and salted, venison, and chicken, with a fine layer of sauce and pepper, all assorted into pieces. Another platter bore grapes, olives, mangoes from the summer islands, pears, peaches, and lemons. Tying it all together was a pitcher of Arbor Gold, deeply aged and smelling exquisite. Jon felt his stomach rumble, and he quickly dug in, eating his fill and enjoying the wine. Food had never tasted this good before, and when he bit into his roast duck so much grease dribbled down his chin a fat man would have died.

When he had eaten to his hearts content, Jon slowly made his way to the window, feeling his stomach lurch from the rich food he had eaten so extensively. He regretted eating so much so soon, but he could not help himself. Jon finally reached the window, the shutters a deep shade of green, though the wood underneath was native to the Stormlands. The slits allowed a little light in, and Jon breathed deeply before throwing open the shutters. He took in the sight - massive palaces filled with servants meandering about like ants in a nest, working at their craft. Houses dotted the landscape, made of the cream colored stone. A port had multiple ships docking in. But underneath the facade of opulence, he noted the poverty and unhappiness - servants looking dejected, slums filling up the space between the larger houses, people being bought and sold below. Jon sighed. He did not need a guide to know he was in Pentos.

 _The Queen on a Rock_

Rhaella would miss Dragonstone. Ser Willem Darry was making the last preparations, along with the rest of the fleet, to help them flee to Essos. They'd been delayed by the coming storm, but she held out hope that they would make it before the Usurper's brother arrived. Rhaella would not allow herself to panic and be overtaken by fear, no matter how close the ships were starting to range. She was the blood of the dragon, and even kind dragons had steely scales. Rhaella knew her babe would come soon. It had been near nine moons since the babe had been conceived. She hated her brother, hated him for raping her, hated the Kingsguard for never helping her, but she could never hate her babes. They had all been sweet and kind, loving and playful. Rhaegar had been her Silver prince, her protector. When he was aught but nine namedays old he had declared he would protect her. Now he was dead. _But I've still got my Viserys, my sweet little boy._ Viserys was playful and curious, kind and smart, and he had loved practicing his swordsmanship with Ser Arthur. Those had been the last good days, before the men had gone off to war and her husband and brother had finished his descent into madness.

A great pain overcame Rhaella, and she knew her babe was coming. She called for her handmaidens, and prepared to bring her child into the world.

…

There had been too much blood. She knew now that she would not last the night, though she could hear the shrieking winds and slamming ships. The ships were being destroyed. Could they even escape? Rhaella did not know. She knew now more than ever her time upon this earth had reached an end. Her babe, Daenerys, began to squall. A wetnurse picked her up and began to sing to her. Ser Willem burst through the door. "My lady! We must get you, your babe, and the prince out now. The Usurper's brother is here with his ships!" Rhaella shook her head sadly. "You must go with my children and the wet nurse. Get out of here. I am afraid it is my time to die now." Willem looked cresfallen, but he took the babe in his great big hands with gentle care. "My crown, too. My children… let them have a reminder of me." She offered the crown to him, and he took it as well. "Goodbye, my Queen." He fled, along with the wetnurse. Rhaella lay there, waiting. The minutes ticked on, time becoming slow and thick, moving at it's own pace. Rhaella wondered if Ser Willem and the children had made it.

…

Rhaella heard the men sprinting up the stairs, ordering for things to be secured. Her garrison had put up little fight, outnumbered as they had been, she guessed. Her prayers went to her children and Ser Willem's safety. Mayhaps she could see her family once more, in the afterlife... Rhaella slipped the bonds of conciousness just as men burst through her door.


	8. The White Bull, The Protector

**A/N A new perspective to show what has been happening with the other two tower kingsguard, and the arrival at White Harbor. But guys, there has been something a little troubling to me - there's a lack of reviews going on in recent chapters. It's difficult for me to engage how much you are enjoying it and what I need to work on when so few people give me criticism and reviews. If you could give me a review giving your honest feedback on the story, I'd appreciate it. Thanks!**

 _The White Bull_

Gerold had been too late. Their ship had been sidetracked, sent southward by squalls and storms that occured so often in early spring, and they'd lost three crewmen to a great storm which had nearly capsized the _Dancing Flower_. The ship had been provided for them by the Prince of Dorne for the purpose of reaching and if necessary helping to bring the Royal Family into a safe exile. They been caught in a huge storm and nearly missed Dragonstone, and thrice over they ran into one of the Usurper's ships fighting their way through the storm. There had been many tense moments, and when they'd finally sighted the great towering peak of the Dragonmont Gerold had felt a sense of relief wash over him. They'd gotten to the Dowager Queen's chambers to find her dead from childbirth. Another ship had already taken the newborn Daenerys and Prince Viserys east. They had listened in as the sounds of the Baratheon fleet drew ever nearer, he and Ser Whent bickering over their next course of action. Ought they serve the new king of the Seven Kingdoms and bide their time or head east and serve the family in exile?

Ser Whent had wanted to serve the Usurper. But Gerold staunchly refused - he had sworn an oath to protect the Targaryens in perpetuity. He'd knelt before the imposing figure of Ser Duncan the Tall, commander of the Kingsguard, and said his vows. Ser Duncan - now there had been an imposing figure, as strong as an ox and near seven feet high. But Gerold had been strong too, in the peak of his youth when he'd sworn his vows.

 _Ser Duncan stood, sword in front of him in the position the Warrior often took when in a sept. Wrought in gleaming white armor, he'd been the epitome of chivalry. But Ser Gerold was only half a foot shorter than Ser Duncan, still tall by any means, and his real capability was his strength. In the peak of his youth he'd been as strong as three men, earning him the nickname the Bull._

 _He'd cut a dashing figure in his youth, handsome and spry with an energy about him. Ladies had batted their eyes at him, but he'd had eyes for only one lass - Lady Tenys Fossoway. She was called the Gilded Apple, and for good reason. She had been beautiful like gold, and her hair the color of the sun, her eyes a piercing blue that still held mirth in them. She was kind, generous, playful but shrewd. And yet, Gerold's father would not allow him to marry her, however, as he had an existing betrothal to Alys Florent, a stupid and cruel woman, cold and callous as well._

 _Gerold had been furious at the news, and he decided instead to elope with Tenys. His father had been furious, disinheriting him from the throne of the Hightower, but Gerold had not cared - he was a youth of fifteen, with all his life ahead of him. He had bought a small house in Oldtown, peddling wares and trying to live out of the eye of the guards and the Hightower. Thrice he had been forced to stop a thief with his strength and once, when a man tried to rape Tenys, he'd picked the man straight off the ground with ease and snapped his neck. Tenys had seen him in a different light then, but the love was still there and even with a meager living he had felt nothing but bliss around her. And then, three years later, Tenys came down with a deep fever, coughing up blood, slowly dying. Gerold had nursed her as best he could, but in the end she died in her sleep. Gerold had mourned for a fortnight, barely eating or sleeping._

 _Gerold had nothing more to his name - no throne to inherit, and his energy had been sapped by grief. He was a second son, and disinherited at that. So it was that he went to King's Landing, and after the rebellion of the Hawk, the Rat, and the Pig, where Ser Martyn Blackwood of the Kingsguard, the Queen's brother, was killed, he had asked to join Aegon the Fifth's Kingsguard. And so he had served for nine faithful years, when Ser Duncan died in the Tragedy at Summerhall. The cloak of the Lord Commander had rested upon his shoulders for that past twenty-four years. He had done it as proud as he could, fighting in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, meeting Maelys the Monstrous in personal combat and delivering a mighty blow that had allowed Barristan Selmy to slay the last of the Blackfyre men._

Gerold broke out of his reverie when one of the deckhands arrived. "Lord Commander, the boat is repaired as best we can and the storm is subsiding. The Captain requests you and Ser Whent on board soon if you plan to follow the Royal Family." The boy had a Dornish drawl, as much of the crew of the _Dancing Flower_ did. Gerold nodded primly. He had sent Ser Whent to collect the heirlooms at Dragonstone - the clutch of eggs there, the ceremonial garments of Aegon the First, and Darkflame, the Valyrian Steel dagger that the Targaryens still held. There were jewels aplenty as well, but they could take only the most essential heirlooms.

When Whent returned, with a chest full of items on hand, they made their way to the ship. "And where are we going, Lord Commander?" He sounded gruff, annoyed that his choice had not been taken. "The Targaryens have a few properties in the Free Cities, relics of their time as one of the Valyrian forty, mostly focused on one of them. If I had to guess, which I ought do, there is only one city that would be best for them. We set sail for Braavos."

 _The Protector_

Arthur found White Harbor to be an intriguing place. Small and orderly, with only forty thousand calling it home, the streets were clean and the harbors filled with trade, grains flowing through as the dregs of winter ended, wood being exported to Braavos and glass being imported. There were warships about, too, and the people looked weary, having lost a good deal of men in the war. Eddard Stark had been received quite well, the people looking on proudly at their returning Lord, who had avenged Brandon and Rickard and who brought back his sister's bones. He'd received a more chilly welcome, to be expected from the uncle of Ned's bastard as they knew him, but all the same they'd welcomed him.

He'd been thinking on something Rhaegar had told him once, of his exchanging of letters with Maester Aemon at the Wall. Rhaegar had become obsessed with dragons and prophecies, and Valyrian steel too. Aemon had mentioned Dark Sister once, just before the war, and when the war had started Rhaegar made his intentions clear that when he had won he would retrieve the sword from the far reaches of the icy north. Chilled winds blew, and the remnants of winter could still be seen - the hungry faces of the smallfolk as they passed through the streets, the slowly clearing snows which had reached five feet deep at the peak of winter. How many had died this winter?

The North was treacherous, harsh and frigid and uncompromising, but where the Northmen were used to the harsh winters the south were not, and this had been used to their advantage in many wars, alongside the highly defensible Moat Cailin. King Jonnel Arryn had marched north with forty thousand banners behind his back, the nobility of the vale, with the intent of conquering The North for himself. Quick as he'd come, he was lost in the swamps of the neck, emerging west of Moat Cailin only for his eight and ten thousand remaining knights, who were starving and plagued with ills, many having lost their great destriers, to be lost in a great snowstorm. When King Brandon the Eighth rallied his banners and marched south, he picked off the disarrayed groups of knights one by one, losing only two hundred eighty men. _Perhaps a lesson could be learned from that war._

Another Arryn king, Charles, had ascended the throne at four and ten and beaten back the invading mountain clans. When the Riverlands attacked his southern lands in the hope of gaining the Bay of Crabs, Charles had utterly crushed them. Charles had led a campaign north, for it had been a part of the thousand years war, with the intent of regaining the sisters and perhaps more. Though he had won a few victories, his overconfidence had led him to attempt to assault Winterfell, being beaten back and northwest to the hills. Charles had attempted to rally the disgruntled hill clans to his side, but in the end managed to only amass two thousand, bolstering his ranks to eight thousand. Charles had been utterly crushed by the full might of the North after that, and the dominant clan of the hill clans, the Tort clan, had been wiped out for their acts against him. The thousands of years of history of these lands were confusing, but Ned had explained these stories and others to him to show him why the North had remained unconquered. " _The Starks command much loyalty amongst the Northerners. We don't play these extensive political games - it is known that when winter comes, we must all band together or perish one by one."_ These words of wisdom had been imparted upon him by Ned.

And the boy - he was growing larger and larger, beginning to babble incoherently and squeal with delight when he found new objects to play with. Arthur took pleasure in these sounds far more than the crying that had been constant in his earlier days, watching him grow larger and louder with each day, seeing more and more of the dragon in him. Ned had taken a candle and tested to see if the boy had the heat resistance to the Targaryens. Not a single mark had appeared after five minutes, and the child showed no signs of pain or even discomfort. It was quite impressive, and Arthur wondered if mayhaps they would be dealing with a dragon soon, too, as it was known by any who had studied dragons and the dragonlords that heat resistance correlated with the likelihood of hatching an egg.

That would be later in the future, however. For now the boy was content to play with his toes and suckle at Wylla's teat. Though soon he would be crawling and then toddling underfoot. _Gods help us all if he has the Lady Lyanna's temperament._

Late in the evening after they had arrived at White Harbor, Arthur was called to the hall. The servant had told him that he was to meet with the Lord. _Well then, let's see if Lord Manderly's hospitality can really be called the finest in the North._

He made his way to the Great Hall of the New Keep, where Lord Manderly and Stark were waiting. Northern customs were intriguing - each hall he had seen had a large central hearth and multiple smaller ones, meant for warming, but also for oathmaking. The source of warmth was incredibly important in the frigid North, and oaths sworn at a hearth were as binding as a blood oath to the Northerners. Indeed, Last Hearth had been named so on accounts of the fact that after that point there was little else for fifty leagues between, and no protection would be afforded between those lands. Aye, hearths also offered protection - if one were to go to the hearth in times of trouble, the family who owned the hearth were required to help. Hells, hearths were so important one of the Old Gods, one of the few with names that could still be remembered, was dedicated to it. This god was by name _Flamrhal,_ and the parallels between _Flamrhal_ and _R'hllor_ were quite stark - both were creatures of flame, of warmth, and eternally locked in battle with a great dark one - though in the Old Faith, this one had a name - _Hodr._ The battle between _Flamrhal_ and _Hodr_ was eternal, and some tales said _Hodr_ was the Lord of the Others.

Lord Manderly cleared his throat. He was a fat man, with three chins visible above his doublet, and more below. "My lord of Stark, your idea of selling wood to Braavos was astute - we're importing more glass for the next winter. I hope to get glass flowing throughout the North as you requested soon so that glasshouses might be made across the major castles and mayhaps the smaller ones as well. And good Ser Alaric of house Monfred. I have not heard of this house, but beyond the greater lords of the south I'm not well versed in symbols or heraldry. You are the uncle of young Jon, I hear. It is good a boy so young might have a man well versed in swordsmanship to teach him, I suppose." He turned back to Ned. "The Deepvaults are being opened and the wealth being counted out. Your request for more materials to the Wall is understandable, I suppose, though why the Wall needs more supplies against wildlings I do not know." At Arthur's confused look, Ned mouthed _talk later_ to him. Arthur nodded. "Oh, but my talk does bore! Let us have a welcoming feast, to celebrate our Lord being back once more!"

 **A/n And there's a chapter! Hope y'all enjoyed the longer chapter.**


	9. The Gallant Griffin, The Stone Warrior

**A/N I appreciate the feedback from everyone! I'm also going to continue working on getting longer chapters out. Also, this chapter is going to be one of the bigger changes, so prepare your butts.**

Somewhere in the world, an old man shifted. The branches and roots that seemed almost to grow out of him were heavy, and he did not move often. Watching over events ever southward, the faintest hint of a smirk passed over his face, though no one but the small beings that scuttled about in the caves would ever see it. There were enemies to the far north rising like a cold wind. Plans that he had worked towards for years had new seeds being planted all the time, but the survival of the swordsman was pleasing. The old man considered what next to send in the man's dreams. A great wracking cough moved through his being, and the green seer returned to his visions.

 _The Gallant Griffin_

Jon Connington was not suited to wearing the colorful doublets and silken breeches of Pentos. Tray after tray of food arrived, and servants brought in new clothes when necessary, but he had been here five days. When would his captor finally allow him to be free? He'd made an attempt to escape through the window, almost making it over the wall before his side flared up and he dropped like a stone. _The Griffin should not be caged so._ He stood up and began to pace about the room. He wished to be wearing mail and leather, with a steel sword in hand and an oaken shield in the other. He was raised to be a warrior, a commander of men. It was difficult to train and keep in shape - the constant trays of food were laden with buttery delights, sauces and meats and fruits aplenty. He ate as necessary and spent the rest of the time considering what happened to Aegon, what he was supposed to do.

The door opened, and he expected a servant with clothes or food. Instead, a man who was quite fat entered. Rolls of fat trembled, and it took him some effort to get through the narrow doorway. His beard was yellow, slicked and oiled so heavily that it gleamed like polished gold. Jon looked at him with narrow eyes. He'd had poor experiences with fat men before, the Spider having sent him off with Aegon and some companions and little else. The fat man also matched what Varys had said about his contact overseas that would help. "And what do you want?" Jon did not let the bitterness in his voice hide.

Instead of a frown, the fat man laughed happily. "Why, only to help the King of Westeros and his protector, of course! Varys told me of his plot in our old code. He always did have elaborate plans. All I ever wanted was to become fat and rich. Tell me, did I succeed?" Jon nodded without hesitation. The man frowned. "You wound me. Have I really become so fat you didnt have to consider? Ah, well. My name is Illyrio Mopatis." Jon recalled reports of the Free Cities, but he'd paid little attention. "I am one of the Magisters of fair Pentos, of course. We must discuss your future, and the boy's as well." The Magister paused, beckoning a comely lass forth. She placed the pitcher of Arbor Gold down as well as two cups, and then retreated hastily when the magister waved her away. Drinking deep and heartily of the Arbor Gold, Jon enjoyed the sweet tartness of the wine. The Magister continued after drinking. "The boy will be raised by the finest - a septa to teach him the Faith, your Septa Lemore, a Maester to teach him knowledge and literacy, a warrior - you - to teach him how to lead and fight, and a steward to teach him finances." Mopatis paused, stroking his oiled beard momentarily. "When the boy returns to the Sunset Kingdoms, he shall bear the banner of his kin, with mercenaries and loyalists alike flocking to his banner."

Jon nodded his head. It sounded all well and good, but he still desired to fight, too. "I should like to practice my sword work and the like." At his words, a devilish grin crossed the mouth of the Magister. It was unbecoming - his teeth were crooked and yellow. "Then do fight, my lord. The boy will not wield a sword until he is six namedays old. Join the Golden Company, fight for some time, and then teach the boy. That is all I and Varys ask of you. For your friend, that Silver Prince, Rhaegar." Jon felt a cold fury, and if he had two hands still he would have throttled the Magister. He dared speak of Rhaegar in such a way? The Magister shifted, likely noticing his scowl. "I mean no offense, Lord Connington. None at all. But you must understand that such anger is unbecoming. You will be King's Hand once more to the boy, think on that." _A King's Hand without a hand. Were it not mine own hand lost, I would laugh at the irony._ Instead all he wanted was to weep. But he had to serve, to keep himself strong for the boy. Aegon would need a firm Hand to keep him from making the same mistakes Rhaegar had.

 _I served the King in name, but it was always Rhaegar I served._ The Magister was feasting on mushrooms, buttered with a light drizzling of oil. Looking up, the Magister smiled wanly. "I have always been one for mushrooms, I find. They are quite tasty." _You are one for all foods, you walrus._ Jon was still bitter about the constant mentions of Rhaegar. The wound was still fresh, and it bit deep to hear his name. _I should have been there, I should have died for him._ The Magister stood. "I shall leave you to your brooding. Tomorrow, we shall fit you with a new hand.

He remembered the Stag in all his glory. He had been six and a half feet at the Tourney of Harrenhal, boisterous, always a grin or a laugh at the ready. He made friends with all those he met, and he could lift a two handed warhammer in one hand and a shield in the other, a whirling dervish in the melee that had not been bested. With his heavy plate and stag helm, he had cut a massive figure, looming over those he fought. In the Battle of the Bells, Jon had fought Robert himself, attacking with a cold fury that had backlashed when he had nearly died, having been delivered a crushing blow that, had it not deflected slightly, would have killed him. Jon had been humiliated, shamed that he had failed Rhaegar. He'd fled, been stripped of his rank as Hand afterwards, and exiled. He had been searching for a ship to board when Varys had contacted him, informing him of Aegon's survival and offering him a chance at redemption. Though the Spider was a fickle man, Jon had leapt at the offer. _And now I am a hand shorter._

…

The next day, he was fitted by a Qohori smith with a new hand. It was strong steel, and he could fit a shield's straps over it. He was lucky the hand he'd lost was his non dominant hand, but his fighting style would have to change to account for the clumsiness of his new hand. Jon still felt a swell of pride when he looked it over. Aegon was to be cared for in Volon Therys, near Volantis. Jon saw the boy one last time, entering his rooms and watching Septa Lemore care for the boy. His white hair was tufty, the color of molten silver like Rhaegar's. _There is no way the boy could not be of Rhaegar's get._ Jon nodded in satisfaction, returning to his horse. He had saddled up, putting letters of confirmation, some coins, his sword, and a small memento of silver hair in a locket to remind him of his roots. He would be accompanied by two of the Magister's eunuch guards, pudgy men with spiked caps and lances. They were largely silent, and when they spoke it was in the smooth-as-metal Valyrian dialects. Jon was unfamiliar, and he kept his sword close just in case on the ride south. The Golden Company would be in Myr now, preparing for another war in the Disputed Lands.

They rode for nine days south, reaching a small tavern just off the Valyrian roads. The Roads were fascinating, fused black stone excellent for riding or walking upon. _When I return, perhaps the Kingsroads should receive an upgrade._ These were the musings that helped keep him sane - he had little companionship beyond the eunuchs, and they largely remained silent. When he entered the tavern, he was pleased to hear some Common Tongue dialect mixed in with the Valyrian, even if it was the harsh tongue of sailors or sellswords.

He made his way over to the men, who were tossing knives at a board in an attempt to win. One of the knives cleanly thumped into the bullseye, and a roar went up among the men. "Excuse me, sers. You are from Westeros, yes?" The men turned. They wore riding leathers, and looked shabby. Their teeth were crooked when they smiled, and the leader spoke harshly. "Aye. We're sellswords. Why?" Jon nodded. "What company do you hail from?" They looked at each other. "We ain't got a company. Our only banner is the cloaks on our backs." The men nodded, murmuring. "I see. It is good to see Westerosi so far from home." The men grunted in agreement. Jon could see their features more clearly now. Pale Valemen, Rivermen with their wild dark hair, Reachmen with that cocky look they all held. Jon could almost feel a homeliness. "Why not fight for the Golden Company?" They shrugged. The leader spoke. "There's not enough gold for all of us. Got tired of it." Jon gave a look of confusion. "A sellsword's life is that of constant battle, of war and terror and the fear the makes up war. You have to be a trained killer, a man willing to put other lives at an end simply for the purpose of earning some extra gold. If you don't get paid enough, why fight and kill?" Jon shook his head, disagreeing, and left. _Wars are about fighting for home, hearth, causes you believe in. A sellsword is the lowest of all the warriors. And yet, I am choosing the sellsword's life now._

The tavernkeep looked tired, and when Jon walked up he nodded expectantly. Speaking haltingly in Common Tongue, he said, "Room, five silvers. Get nice food too. Roast goat with some garlic." Jon nodded, putting five silvers on the counter. The eunuchs could sleep in the stables. Jon took a seat at the table, and when a serving wench came with a platter of goat cutlets and garlic, Jon ate heartily. Some Lorathi ale was served, dark and tasty. Their alcohol was quite excellent, and Jon had once even tasted a spirit from the North. It had been strong and bitter, clear of color, and just a little had gotten him quite drunk. _The North rose against Rhaegar._ They had had reason, of course, but Jon was still bitter. Aerys had been a fool, a terrible madman. _We were so close. The plot was there, had Aerys not come Rhaegar would have crowned Elia queen of love and beauty and the Seven Kingdoms would have risen up to depose him_. Instead, they'd lost their hopes of having the greatest king ever to live when he had crowned Lyanna Stark, the wolfish girl who, while charming and fair in her own way, had a hot temper.

It was on the eighteenth day that they finally arrived at Myr, and what a sight it was. While not as marble based, it had opulence and splendor of it's own, not unlike Pentos. Great glass murals lined the walls, depicting battles and wars aplenty. And there'd been a great deal of wars in Myr's past. Records told that thirty four wars had been fought over the Disputed lands alone. _A terrible tragedy that a city so beautiful has such an ugly history._ Many of the noble ladies walking about the streets wore Myrish lace or silk, but Jon also saw the smallfolk, the slaves who cowered in alleys hastily making conversation or trying to scrounge for extra food. The free cities sickened him even more than they had at first. How many hundreds of thousands or even millions of slaves scrounged out a meagre living while the rich lived opulently, with great towering palaces of gold and marble. Westeros was more equal than this place would ever be, even if the smallfolk and the highborn were differing in status. _That I know._ The Golden Company made it's camps not in the Myrish city itself but outside, a great tent city of men working at swords and armor and discussing their wives or what wench they'd made squeal. Jon heard a thousand and more conversations as he passed through the camp to the pavilion, the commander's tent. Elephants trumpeted loudly, a great squealing noise ripping through the air as the crossbowmen practiced on moving pigs.

If all went well, he would join the Golden Company and fight with them in this new war, earning gold, glory and relearning his fighting skills. _And if I fail, I will die._ _Best not fail then._ And so it was that Jon entered the commander's tent. Their commander looked unsurprised at his arrival. "I was wondering when you would arrive, Jon Connington. Men who fight for the Red dragon can have common cause with the Black dragon's if neither sits the throne, hm?" And Myles Toyne grinned.

 _The Stone Faced Warrior_

Winterfell loomed in the distance. It was a massive castle, sprawling across acres of land, taking up the horizon even from a couple leagues off. Though Harrenhal had been bigger, so massive it seemed like a giant's hand reaching to the sky, Winterfell was still quite vast. Ned seemed uncomfortable to Arthur. He looked relieved, aye, but he also looked nervous. Likely he was considering what he would say to Catelyn. Jahaerys shifted, looking a tad uncomfortable as Wylla rode along with them. Ned's companions, who had largely been enjoying themselves out of sight and out of mind, had dispersed at White Harbor to return home after a few awkward farewells, though Martyn rode with them. They'd had a long journey together, and there would forever be the bond of knowing who Jahaerys was. He was growing plumper, fuller of face, and he was more energetic, though he always carried a brooding look. Rhaegar had left that in him, at least. The boy had Stark colorings, but there was also the egg in the chest that rode with Wylla.

It was an hour of riding before they finally reached the gates. A guard appeared at the battlements, his sallet slightly too large for his head. "Who goes there?" The man peered down at them. "Oh, milord, my apologies. Open the gates, you morons! Lord Stark returns!" The gates rumbled open. They'd sent word that they would be coming, but fair ground and good time had made them earlier than expected. Ned rode forth. Lady Catelyn was waiting, a small bundle in her arms with a tuft of auburn hair sticking out. She glanced over the party largely dismissively, lingering on Arthur, before looking at the bundle in Wylla's arms. A frown came upon her face then, but only momentarily before she trained her expression. Ned dismounted, his riding leathers ruffled. "My husband, may I present your son, Robb." She proffered the bundle to him, and he smiled, offering the boy one of his fingers, which was promptly gnawed upon. Ned laughed, a quiet rumble through the courtyard. "A warrior indeed." Lady Catelyn looked over at Wylla's bundle again, then gave a pointed glance to Ned. He noticed it, and quitely said, "Later. We shall discuss this in my solar when I have changed and bathed." Catelyn frowned slightly, but nodded her head. She looked dishevelled, bags under her eyes telling of little sleep. With a six moons old babe, it was to be expected.

Arthur was given quarters in one of the side wings of the castle, a roomy complex of five rooms with a bath of his own. He settled down, opening his chest. He'd put his Kingsguard armor away, instead choosing more fitting garments - riding leathers were what he wore now, but he decided to put on some warm breeches and a woolen doublet to combat the chills that still swayed through the North. Pulling on some socks and then some supple leather boots, he rifled around in his chest before pulling forth the longsword he'd taken to using. Well balanced castle-forged steel, it would serve him well, though he still missed Dawn. _It is not the sword that makes the man, but the skill he holds in himself._ He'd been hailed as the finest swordsman in Westeros for quite some time. And in time, he'd teach the young heir the skills necessary to fight, make him a skilled swordsman of his own. He owed it to Rhaegar.

Arthur looked out upon the training yard, where a group of the household guard wielding halberds worked at a dummy, hacking and slashing in tandem. The Northerners were much more infantry based than the southerners, relying upon good pike formations and bowmen to carry the day against cavalry, though the Manderly's had their knights and the Rillmen their lancers. Northern tactics were largely defensive, trading volleys of arrows and then using pikes to fend off enemy charges until then enemy has depleted their men, then a simple countercharge with the swordsmen. Of course, there was also diversionary gambits - leaving men out in the open and hiding soldiers in defensive positions nearby to take the enemy by surprise. Arthur was broken out of his musings by a knock at the door. Turning and opening the heavy oak, he peered at the boy in front of him. "Yes?" The boy shuffled his feet. "Milord, Lord Stark requests your presence in his chambers at once. Bring the boy, he said." Arthur nodded, checking over his outfit before heading out. He had a vague idea of the layout, having heard Ned's explanations of the castle's layout as best he could. Heading towards the nursery, he picked up Jon, who was sleeping peacefully, and made his way to Ned's solar. There, his lady wife and he were waiting tersely, looking at the door - and him - patiently. "The boy. Why do you allow the boy to stay with us? He is your bastard, I've heard it from the men." Catelyn seemed quite coldly angered, like a simmering pot waiting to boil.

"Because he is not my bastard. He is my nephew." Ned's words seemed to sink in - Catelyn looked at the boy for a moment, then at Ned, her mouth slightly open. "Lyanna… she…?" Catelyn trailed off. "Aye. Jon, or Jahaerys, is my nephew and my blood. Catelyn, I do not ask you an easy thing, to raise another woman's child as your own. But you are my wife. I cannot keep a secret so large from you." Catelyn nodded demurely. "Does he have any mementos, anything to remind him of his birth?" She looked uncomfortable as she asked the question. Ned nodded demurely. "He has a heavy resistance to flame and I collected all that I could from the tower. There is a swaddling blanket, a dragon's egg, multiple letters, and this pendant." Ned pulled a pendant from his pocket, a wolf pendant silver in hue with ruby eyes. Catelyn nodded, examining the pendant. "Then who… who is your companion here? I've suspicions of my own, but it would be best if you confirmed it." Catelyn nodded to Arthur. "None other than Arthur Dayne, my lady. He has sworn to be Jon's protector, as the last of Rhaegar's line." Catelyn nodded, looking quite startled by the whole lot. "You have given me much to think on, lord husband, but I cannot say I am displeased. Had you not told me these things sooner, I would have hated you and the babe for reminding me of your dishonor. Instead, Robb will have a cousin of an age with him to play with, to grow up with." Catelyn smiled wanly. Ned nodded his head.

"That would be nice. However, there is something else I have been meaning to discuss with you, my Lady and Ser." Ned shifted quietly, looking about. "I have been having dreams, odd in nature. They show me signs of winter, of war and death, starvation and pestilence. The longest winter in a thousand years. I have been sending ravens to my lords, to open the deepest vaults reserved for combatting the harshest of winters, with the intent of building glasshouses across the North. If we are to survive the winter that comes, we must have food, after all. But in these dreams, I also see... " Ned paused, momentarily. "In one I saw Bolton banners over Winterfell. In another I saw a boy with auburn hair being killed at a feast, along with many lords I do recognize." Ned frowned. "I do not know what these dreams fully mean, but the implications are dire. In these coming years, we must work to make sure they do not come to fruition. We must set to work doing what is best for the North and the realm as a whole." Catelyn nodded dutifully, her eyebrows creased. Arthur nodded in affirmation as well. "Then perhaps it is time I discuss one of the things I saw in my dreams…"

…

They made their way down a great deal of steps. Deep in the underbelly of Winterfell. They passed a few vault doors, though Ned shook his head at each. "They will come in useful, for they have much gold stored away, but I am looking for a particular one." Their torch sputtered out after the fourth vault, and Ned cursed as he retrieved another and lit it. They continued down ten sets of stairs before, finally, a massive vault door loomed before them. Ned nodded, slowly turning the handle about this way and that. "I did not learn much in my youth before I headed off to the Eyrie, but I was taught of this vault. When a long winter comes, it must be opened." Finally, with a click and a heaving groan, the door opened. Ned shone his torch in it. It was quite large, as tall as four men and wide enough to fit five men on horseback. Inside was racks of rotting wood filled with quivers, bags, and the like for the first ten feet. Though the wood and fletching was rotting, the arrowheads shone in a brilliant purple hue, and the sacks contained daggers of a similar color with leather strips for handles. When Arthur tested the edge on one, he cut himself deeply, letting out a curse. Further on, they encountered multiple cages, opened with tattered bits of leather and the like inside. Nearing the end, they saw multiple tapestries, many rotted away, but those that remained showed inhuman monsters with pale blue eyes being burnt. Finally, they reached the end of the hall.

There was a chest there, though the wood was weirwood and did not show signs of rot. Ned took a step, looking quite perturbed. Catelyn asked, "My Lord, what is in the chest?" Ned turned his head back. "Legends," he paused, opening the chest. "Legends I did not believe in when I was younger." He pulled forth a handle with leather strips, oiled and blackened showing no signs of rot. It seemed as though there was no blade - rusted away, mayhaps - but then Ned turned it to the side. It shimmered, blue and almost translucent, patterns swirling about, sharp as any blade ever made, with a bite that Arthur was sure could kill as easy as slicing bread. "Ice. The sword wielded four hundred generations ago by Brandon the Builder himself."


	10. Ned, Gerold

**A/N This story has reached an astounding 35k views and nearly three hundred followers! Also, I'm back. Sorry for the long haitus!**

 _Ned_

The coldness of the blade was sheer. It came off the sword in waves, cooling him, but not to the point where his hand was frozen over, oddly enough. Ned swore quietly. "A powerful weapon, I must say… Incredible balance, too." Ned looked back up to his wife and nephew's sworn sword. Catelyn was pale, her eyes wide, blue eyes frantically looking over the room. Arthur seemed utterly fascinated by the sword - and why wouldn't he be, when it was a relic from eight thousand years ago. "I need to test this on something. Arthur, pass me your sword - don't worry, I'll replace it." Arthur paused for a moment, glancing at the sword buckled to his waist, before unsheathing it and handing it to Ned. Ned gave a testing slash with the icy blade before hitting the sword with a heavy blow. A shriek pierced the air, and Ned's eyes involuntarily closed. The Lord of Winterfell felt something fly past, cutting his cheek. Hot blood oozed out, the icy blade seeming to take power from it. Ned opened his eyes a moment later, finding the sword to be chipped into a dozen pieces scattered all over the place. "Gods…" I _ndeed this is a powerful weapon.,_ Ned thought. Arthur paused after his outburst, looking over the room once more, far more weary.

"What are the purposes of those cages?" Arthur's question hung in the air with a querulous weight. Ned simply shook his head, thinking. Looking further in the weirwood chest, he found a book, bound in a strange leather he did not recognize. Opening it, he found first men runes he did not recognize, but after flipping for quite a few pages, watching as the runes became more recognizable, the script turned to some form of old Common.

 _As Transcribed bye the ancestors before us, this book holds the keyes to fighting the Others. The Fyreglasse arrowheads, daggers, and spearheads in the racks and bags can be used to kill the Others. Wights cannot be killed by normal meanes, but when using a torch or brand one can burn it away, removing the essence. The Wall will holde off the enemy armies well enough, but without the renewing ceremony once every five hundred years, the wardes fade. Do not forget the Winterfell wards, either, for they cann be used as a last defence. Suitable caverns of Fyreglasse can be found in the foothills of the North. Remember; Winter is Coming. Be Prepared. - Jeghold Stark._

Jeghold Stark… Jeghold had been the thirty sixth Stark king, as Ned recalled. The only portions of note in his reign had been a twelve year winter that had caused the wildlings to attack the Wall. _The Starks must renew the book with additional knowledge when a long winter comes._ Flipping forth through the pages, much of the same knowledge was reiterated; although additional tidbits to fighting Ice Spiders and, most interestingly, tales of a horn that could wrest control of the Other's Ice Dragons away being somewhere in the Far North. As he read, he noticed Cately looking over the tapestries and Arthur sifting through the sacks. The final entry, an entry from Theon Stark - _that Theon Stark?_ \- noted that his men had discovered how to make cages that slowed the rot, allowing evidence to be given when the Others came for their second invasion.

"So much information… Incredible. I don't understand it all, but what I'm reading talks of Ice Spiders and Ice Dragons, wights and Others… All things I only heard of in tales I was told of as a child. This journal speaks of a renewal ceremony for the wall, but I do not know of any such ceremony. What else have you learned?" Ned looked up at the tapestries.

"Soldiers using torches to set their enemies alight. This one was moth-eaten or perhaps rotted, but from what I can tell, it shows the Wall… blowing enemies back? This area here is missing-" Catelyn pointed where the outer side of the wall should have been, a large chunk missing- "but otherwise it seems to be recounting great battles with the Others. I find it all quite odd, admittedly." Ned nodded. Arthur held up a particularly nasty looking weapon. A long, ironwood shaft poked out, with a well kept handle on it, but it was the head that was odd - like a normal mace, almost, with a steel head, but the tips also had dragonglass slotted in. "There were only a few of these ones, but the daggers and whatnot will also come in handy." Ned nodded.

Turning back to the journals worn pages for a long minute, flipping through them, Ned learned little else, although mention of Dragonsteel being able to kill both wights and Others was interesting. _Valyrian steel, mayhaps?_ Ned thought. "Well, we've learned much from this place. I'll take… Ice with me, as well as this journal, and send men down to pick up the rest. In the meantime, I'm going to get Vayon and sort through the deepvaults. I'm planning some major construction projects.

 _Not least of which is some large, sturdy walls and glass gardens._

* * *

 _Gerold_

The ship swayed and rocked slightly as the Titan of Braavos loomed in the distance. The collosal statue seemed to watch over him, a horn blowing lightly in the distance. Gerold breathed a sigh of relief. Braavos was the best of the Free Cities. Sure, Volantis was largest and perhaps richest, but Braavos was not built on the backs of slaves. Gerold looked back at Whent, who seemed a little bit in awe of the Braavosi towers. Gerold had been here before, once, in his youth. He had been escorting Prince Aerys to look into a loan with the Iron Bank; unfortunately, the loans from the iron bank would grow more extensive after Tywin resigned the Handship, but that trip to Braavos had been exciting and intriguing. Now Gerold was here on even more serious business. He had learned from a few Targaryen loyalists who had accompanied him that the Targaryens were fleeing to their sole property in Braavos of any substantial value; the Rilyqar Manor, commonly referred to as the Red Door Manor. The _Dancing Flower_ sailed smoothly into the port, where many different ships were docked - but no Braavosi ships, of course - and the crewmen began to unload their cargo quickly. A customs man came to take a docking fee, which was paid for hastily. Gerold, meanwhile, gathered up the heirlooms he had stored in the chest, brought together the loyalist men and Whent, and then began his way through the streets of Braavos.

Braavos was an interesting city, built upon a thousand different islands as small as a house or as large as a palace. Bridges dotted the city, interconnecting the canals but also allowing choke points for defence. It was a well built city, with good planning, but it was actually the Titan of Braavos that provided the best defense; being able to rain down ranged hell with impunity on any invading ships, Braavos had only been successfully invaded once, by one of the last dragonlords, and even then the occupation only lasted a month before his dragon was killed and he was promptly executed. Gerold had read on the history of Braavos before, finding it fascinating. Hundreds of merchants peddled their wares, including an interesting few who had travelling boat shops. Gerold saw a sword shop with particularly fine swords, made of excellent steel and with great craftsmanship. Stopping there, Gerold talked with the Qohori smith, and bought a fine longsword for Viserys, to gift him when he turned twelve. Their meandering eventually reached the Manor of the Red Door. Gerold paused, looking over the resplendent property. A tree with yellow fruits hanging off it was in the courtyard. At further glance, Gerold guessed they were apples of some kind. Looking back at the retinue, Gerold turned back to the door. A gruff man opened the door, looking out cautiously, before recognizing his brother of arms. "Gerold. What are you doing here?" The question sat in the air for a moment as Gerold looked within, where the children were being read to by a maidservant.

"We've come to serve the last Targaryens."

 **A/N My haitus is hopefully over. I was struggling with writers block for a long time, so I took quite a while to read other ASOIAF stories to get some inspiration. I am now duly back.**


	11. Jon, Eddard

**A/N Hello, all. It has been too long, in my opinion, but my passion for this story ebbs and flows without any control from my end. Regardless of how long it takes, however, I will finish this story to the best of my capacity. As such, I begin this chapter by stating that this will be a five year timeskip.**

It was a windy night when an acolyte entered the dark room, the three candles the only other thing occupying the room. The door shut behind the acolyte with a great boom, locking moments later. With aught else to do, the acolyte touched the glass candles, feeling them. A slight sharpness cut his finger, and when the blood touched the candle, something he or anyone at the Citadel never expected to happen happened. The glass candles lit in hues of great bright whites, golden yellows, reds as crimson as blood, and blues, blacks, and purples like holes in the world. Somewhere in the darkness, a woman in a red mask with shiny, wet eyes smiled lightly.

 _Griffon_

On a particularly bright day, Jon was feeling the phantom pains of his old hand, the whetstone carefully wedged in grasp of the replacement hand, a blunt thing made of hardy oak with a coating of steel. Just as he was honing the edge of the sword he had taken to using, however, Jon heard footsteps. They were quiet, very quiet, but he had had to hone his ears well in the past five years, fighting as part of the most renowned mercenary company in the world. Placing the steel and leather weapon down, he pivoted on his heel and entered his tent. Nothing beyond the flapping of the back side of the tent. Suspicious, Jon searched his tent, looking through the meagre possessions he held. Then he noticed a letter he had not seen before waiting on his side table. Walking over to it and searching for any other clues, Jon shrugged when he found none. He opened the letter and began to read, easily telling that the handwriting was even, neat, most likely a nobleman or well trained scribe.

 _To the Griffin_

 _The one you protect so dearly is grown and strong enough for your services to be required. Instructions as to ensure none follow you are included in another document. To find the wyrmling, go to the unwanted daughter's favorite inn, close to the Sept across the Sea. You will see a ship with sails yellow and black chequy. There will be the one you seek. Read these instructions as needed, then burn them._

 _Your friend in Westeros_

Jon read the letter multiple times, committing it to memory, then burnt it in the candle he kept nearby. The other letter detailed an elaborate plot to convince the Golden Company and most others that he was dead - not as tasteful an end as he might have hoped for, but a believeable one. Jon folded the letter, burning it too. Walking down to the local tavern where the men were preparing themselves for a new campaign, Jon grimaced. His reputation would be ruined, but for the boy, the lad whose father he had failed, he would do anything necessary. _For Aegon_.

When it was all said and done and the Golden Company convinced of his death, drowned within his wineskin with a good pouch of the company's gold on him, Jon found passage on a ship, _The Buxom Wench_ , out of the port of Myr. It had proven to be as fetid and foul as any other port he had been to in the Free Cities - that was to say very little, for the Myrish wanted to keep up appearances of being noble and tasteful even if slaves abounded in the city. But he also noticed things - the dockhands with the barely covered tattoos marking slaves, the overworked and tired harbormen…

His travels took him past lands of lovely color. The more temperate lands of the Free cities allowed for larger cities, and the people had more money too - save for the slaves of course - Jon knew it was because of the system of how wars worked in the south. Rather than the sacking and pillaging of Westerosi wars, it was a rather orderly system with both sides hiring mercenaries, fighting it out on the field of battle, and the losing city surrendering and paying tribute.

Restless and weary from being on a boat, Jon took to assisting the crewmen as well as he could with one good hand. He spent his days doing backbreaking labor alongside the other men, swearing, joking, and enjoying himself. It felt good to not play the role of the Noble, haughtily looking down upon the others, but to gamble and drink and swear like, well, a sailor.

However, deep within the back of his mind, Jon couldn't shake the feeling of dread as they were sailing. He never would be able to, not after his encounter with the pirate lord Sallador Saan, not after having his hand cut from his arm, making him feel like a lesser warrior. He had killed Saan, exacted revenge, and yet years on he still felt the occasional twinge of pain in the missing hand. Once they cleared the southern Narrow Sea, however, he felt slightly more at ease. The days passed quicker, one after another, until the Captain, a man missing a few teeth but bearing the authority of a good commander, told him in the bastard dialect of Valyrian that Braavos was only a day and a half away.

That night, Jon tossed and turned. It had been years since he had since Aegon. The boy would not remember him, not know him well. He had missed so much of the boy's life, fighting as a sellsword. Jon wondered what the boy would look like; would he take after the Father or the more willowy mother?

Jon was broken out of his musings by the Titan of Braavos, the hulking behemoth watching down on him, as if judging him. He felt quite relieved when he made it through the archway, with the sun rising over the city making it look far prettier than it might have at any other time, the houses of stone and brick upon small islands making way to less reputable taverns and brothels as they approached the Ragman's harbor. Jon could not help but feel a bit of awe, looking at the aqueduct that supplied Braavos with water, then seeing the Sealord's Palace, a great construct of Marble, with towers reaching towards the sky lazily.

The _Buxom Wench_ neatly pulled into port, putting down the gangway plank. The captain and crew said farewell to Jon, though moments after the captain got into a heated argument with the customs officer about rates.

Jon walked through the streets, feeling both uneasy and calm, his stomach in turmoil. It was strange; he was a man grown, old enough to have sired children Aegon's age, yet he was making himself into a fool over meeting the boy again. Various volk walked the rather narrow streets, bridges and canals crisscrossing about. Water was never more than a few hundred feet away at most, which was strange to Jon, who had been fighting in the Disputed Lands so long that he had grown accustomed to the lands therein. Various merchants called out their prices, haggling with men and women loudly. Braavos was truly a Merchant's city, indeed. Jon continued to walk, closer and closer the the islands that bore the various temples in Braavos. He could already hear the various religious songs calling out. Braavos was, thankfully, not a city of many followers of the Lord of Light. Jon had had bad run-ins with some of their worshippers, and an even worse one with a red priest. Braavos' policy of tolerance was antithetical with the zealotry that abounded in red priests and their followers.

The Sept across the Sea came into view, its dome and seven sides a familiar sight to Jon, one that came alongside a longing for Westeros. Jon continued walking alongside the waterfront, keeping the Sept nearby as he searched. His search, however, was not necessary. Sitting in the wide expanse of water nearby was the ship promised. Already two guards were arguing with the captain, and what he could make out of the rapid fire Valyrian was mostly about not being in the port. The Captain shook his head, and Jon felt he was about to give up and leave when the man spotted him. Waving him down, the man spoke once more in the bastard dialect, and the guards seemed to relent when he tossed a small pouch of coin to them. The soldiers grumbled a moment more, splitting the coin between them, and then walked off, their halberds resting easily on their shoulders once more.

Jon hailed the captain, and after a short exchange, he walked onto the ship. Jon remembered fondly one of the first times he had met Aegon. Not long before the Usurper's war, Jon had been visiting with Rhaegar. Rhaegar had shown him Aegon, who was walking unsteadily, had fallen and hit himself on a desk leg. While the boy had not been seriously injured, he had gained his first scar that day. It had been a small gash on the right side of his jaw, faintly noticeable. Jon had exclaimed that it would be a handsome scar one day, and Rhaegar had laughingly agreed. Jon entered the proper cabin, seeing a young youth of no more than eight namedays, his hair dyed blue. Aegon's eyes were lilac, but when combined with the hair dye they looked a shade of blue. Jon opened his mouth proudly, about to tell the boy the story he had just been thinking of, when he noticed the scar was gone. Jon closed his mouth abruptly, examining the boy closely. While his eyes were lilac, they were a lighter hue than Aegons eyes had been. Looking further, the boy's frame matched neither father nor mother, but was more stocky. With a growing feeling of dread, Jon wondered shakily if this was the boy he had left behind years ago.

 _Eddard_

Ned watched proudly as Jon and Arthur sparred, with the latter pointing out the boy's mistakes and how to correct them. Jon seemed a little dejected at having lost again, but he also seemed proud at getting close to hitting Arthur. Ned did not have the heart to tell him that Arthur was going easy on the seven nameday old boy. Still, the boy had a raw talent that Arthur was helping to form into a preciseness that would match any in the realm once the lad was an adult. Ned smiled happily at Jon when the boy looked over at him. While still under the guise of a bastard, Ned was planning on telling the boy his heritage when he reached eight namedays. Turning on his heel and striding off, leaving the two to work at the swordsmanship, Ned saddled up his horse and rode out with Jory close behind. Jory's father had been quite proud of the lad when Ned had appointed him as guard, and there was the hint that Jory would one day become Captain of the Guard should he prove worthy. Evidently the lad was working hard for it, because he seemed jittery and constantly on his guard.

Ned rode through Wintertown, looking on at the renewed livelyhood of the town, which was rejuvenated with the various craftsmen, builders and traders and their families which had moved in in recent years. The wall surrounding Wintertown and a good portion of the farms nearby was growing ever closer to completion, and the glasshouses that filled quite a few of the acres were also well at hand. The twenty ninth decade after the Conquest grew ever closer. New buildings popped up throughout the Wintertown every month, growing more and more populous. Ned was glad of it, and the renewed search for materials for the wall had found multiple gem deposits in the hilly lands to the north. The North was feeling the economic prosperity that had not been seen since the Spring Sickness long ago. Ned had a loving marriage with Cat, only growing greater with the years, and his two boys and two girls filled the castle with laughter and cheerfulness. And yet, Ned could not shake the feeling of unease deep at his heart. Something was wrong. The feeling had been here since a few mornings ago, after waking up from another of those strange dreams he had been having over the years.

Ned cursed. "Jory, I think it's time we rode back. Cat will be worried by now, and I want to check in with Arya." Jory nodded his head resolutely, chewing something over.

"My lord, I feel as if this is strange to say, but have you felt uneasy the past few days? I have, and I'm uncertain why." Jory bit his lip for a moment, waiting.

"I… I have, Jory. Do you know why you feel uneasy?" Ned had stopped now, turning back to glance at the lad.

"No, my lord. Just a feeling of unease." Ned nodded his head, thinking.

"Let's get back to Winterfell. I'll feel better behind sturdy walls." With those words, the two rode back to Winterfell.

* * *

Arriving at the gates, Ned dismounted, handing off the reigns to a stableboy. Waiting for him was Cat and Maester Luwin - Robb and Jon were watching, attempting poorly to hide behind a few crates of goods.

"Oh, Ned… it's terrible. You must read the letter." Cat was looking frightened, but she thrust an opened letter at him. Ned noted the seal of the King and grew worried. The King didn't write often.

 _Ned,_

 _I thought the Ironborn were barmy before, but they're ruddy lunatics. Balon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Iron Islands and the Riverlands, and he's crippled the Lannister fleet. I request that you muster your men immediately, and move south. We've got to defeat that moron quickly before other lords think to declare independence. Jon and I will meet your men at Riverrun. Send my regards to Cat on her birth, too._

 _Your friend,_

 _King Robert Baratheon_

Ned rubbed his forehead, shaking his head. What was Greyjoy thinking? The Ironborn could muster perhaps fifteen thousand men, the North alone could raise twenty quickly and forty if done thoroughly. Ned turned to Luwin. "Send word to the major Lords to gather their men here. I need a quick mustering, too." Ned turned, looking for Ser Rodrik. "Rodrik, send out your men, gather some levies from nearby. Time is of the essence. Arthur can help protect you and the children alongside the guards, Cat, I doubt you'll have anything to worry about." Ned ran a hand through his hair. "I'll need you to inform the cooks and the servants that the lords will be arriving soon, we'll need to prepare food for them and their men.

"Oh, how can this be happening, Ned? I had hoped we would be done with war for a time. And in winter, of all seasons!" Catelyn took a deep breath before resolving herself. "Robb, Jon, come out here. You're fooling no one." Robb and Jon sheepishly walked out, looking a little embarrassed. Then the barrage of questions began.

"How can you be going to w-" "I thought the evil men got defeated-" "Does this mean you'll get to fight like Daero-"

"Boys! Stop! One at a time, one at a time." Ned sighed, the boys evidently a little worried but mostly excited. Jon asked the first question.

"Can we come with you?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Will Uncle Alaric be going with you?"

"No, he's staying here to help protect you children."

"Are you going to fight monsters?"

"Just Ironborn, although they do have some evil habits."

The boys seemed quiet for a time, thinking over his answers. Ned sighed, waving the lads off to go play for a time. He decided then that he'd like to sit and enjoy a relaxing moment in his solar with some mulled wine, because he knew there'd be no time for relaxing in the coming months.


	12. Eddard, Jahaerys

**Chapter 12**

It was a still night in Qarth. Valyqo Merathys, a trader from Telos, was making his way through the streets, trying to find his way back to the inn he'd been staying at. He cursed the damnable Qartheen and their brothels all the way home. The streets were, thankfully, quite empty, only a few people making their way back home during the late night. Perhaps it was because of that stillness that it took a few moment for someone to notice what was happening. "Gods!" Came the call from one of the citizens returning to their abode. Valyqo turned on his heel to see what the person was pointing at. In the distance, the House of the Undying was alight with blue flames, burning ever higher. Shrieks carried over the distant wind. Said wind moved sparks towards other Qartheen houses. Had it been King's Landing, with its overcrowdedness, half the city would be caught alight like dry straw in summer. Had it been a normal fire, Qarth would not have suffered. But the flames moved, jumping from house to house like it had a mind. More shrieks. Valyqo was regretting coming to Qarth in the first place. He regretted it even more when a troop of guards barreling down the street shoved him out of the way.

 _Eddard_

They'd left behind four hundred men at Moat Cailin, hastily marching to Riverrun. Ned looked back at the column. He could hear soldiers grumbling. Ned turned his attention ahead. Their crannogman scout had deftly weaved a path to and fro, finding all the solid spots in the ground. Ned shook his head at the thought. _Gods only know how he remembers._ If they had been a southron army, they'd have been bogged down, trapped by the mud and bogs of the land. Ned turned his eyes upward, thanking his ancestors for conquering Greywater Watch. The crannogman, Belin, had been invaluable, if sparse for words. They'd made good time across the swamps, covering the grounds in just a couple of weeks. After a terse crossing over the Twins, wherein Walder Frey had attempted to swindle him into a deal, they'd made it across the Green Fork.

Ned smiled at the memory of Walder Frey's face when Ned had calmly told him what repercussions from the King he could expect if he tried to halt the army. The man had looked utterly gobsmacked. Ned had been sure the vein on his forehead would pop. Eventually he'd allowed them to cross, muttering darkly the entire time. The strange thing was, when he had been meeting with Walder in his hall, he'd vaguely recognized it. He couldn't tell from where, but the hall had suddenly taken on a distinctly… sinister feeling. Ned promised himself he wouldn't return to this place anytime soon if he could help it. His army was nearing Seagard now. Something was off. He couldn't hear the birds any longer. He listened closely. In the distance, the bonging of a bell. Smoke, rising from the tree line. Ned cursed. "Double time! Trouble ahead, might be Ironborn." His nearest commanders, Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton, rode to their contingents, yelling - and in Roose's case, having someone yell - various commands, mostly along the lines of 'Speed up!' 'Form up!' and his favorite, 'Get your arses moving!'

Roose and Rickard moved up beside him. "Lord Eddard, our soldiers will reach Seagard in… mayhaps half an hour, at best. The fate of the battle may be decided. May already have been decided, actually. If we take the cavalry and move quickly, however, we could get there in a third of the time. A good charge should force the Ironborn into a rout, and we'll have won the day." Rickard looked to Ned for approval. Ned turned his head to Roose.

"My lord, while it might be valuable to bring the cavalry in for a charge, if the Ironborn don't rout, we will become mired down in the fighting, without infantry to support us. It would mean the deaths of many. Ironborn are unlikely to rout; they are many things, but craven is not usually among them." Roose shifted in his saddle, his pale eyes looking out towards Seagard.

"Ironborn aren't stupid. If they get hit from the rear with a cavalry charge, they will sure-"

Ned cut him off with a raised hand. "My lords, we could argue as much as we'd like, and surely the battle would be decided by then. No, I'm making a decision now. Form the cavalry up. We'll hit the Ironborn from behind; gods help us, perhaps Lord Mallister will be able to take advantage. Regardless, time is running out." Ned beckoned a messenger forth, and relayed his instructions. The lad left quickly, weaving through the lines. Soon, a trickle of Stark cavalry poured in behind him. A minute later, Rillman lancers and Manderly knights joined them. All told, eight hundred men. Ned left Lord Roose behind with the infantry, to bring them to bear as swiftly as possible. Lord Rickard accompanied him looking, for lack of a better term, quite smug.

Ten minutes later, they cleared the tree line and spotted Seagard. Ned couldn't tell a great deal, but he saw purple banners in the distance, clumped up near the gates. The Booming Tower rang, again and again, filling the air with great booms. Ned spotted a clump of mounted knights, fighting their way through the ironborn. And in the distance, the Mallister fleet was clashing with some Ironborn longships, trading blow for blow. Ned turned to his men. "My lords! Soldiers of the North! Charge!" His bellow was met with a great roar, as horses were spurred forth, lances couched, and shields raised. Ned, for his part, raised Ice, radiating waves of cold. It had been difficult to find a good sheath, since the blade froze most. Ned had had his lined with weirwood, helping to stop the frost. His horse galloped swiftly, and all too soon they met the lines of Ironborn. Some had managed to lock shields, but most were in disarray, the fighting becoming chaotic. Ned swung Ice at a nearby Ironborn's head; the blade cut through the iron of his helm with contemptuous ease. The man dropped, dead. An Ironborn bellowed, swinging an axe the same height as Ned at his horse. Ned blocked with Ice, the sword cutting through the haft. The following swing went through the man's neck, and Ned heard the faint crackle of ice expanding.

Some Mallister soldiers were fighting nearby, forcing a gap in the ironborn lines. To call them lines was something of a misnomer; it was more of an amorphous blob, shifting with the wind. Ned searched for a moment. He spotted a well armoured man, surrounded by a few other ironborn. From the looks of it, this man was the commander. Ned weaved his way through, cutting down Ironborn with an ease that was not normal. Ned appreciated the power of his weapon, respected it really, but even he had to question just what his ancestors had faced. Ned made it to the cluster of Ironborn. One came at him from the front; he cut the man down swiftly, the blade slicing through cleanly. He didn't see the one from behind; were it not for his horse, he likely would have been cut down. His horse moved, shifting away, and unfortunately was cut down instead. Ned wrenched himself from the saddle, landing unsteadily on his feet. He stabbed at the ironborn who had cut down his horse, who was trying to unlodge his axe. The man dropped like a sack of stones. Ned chopped out at another, but this one was wary and dodged, attacking swiftly with his handaxe. Ned dodged and blocked as well as he could, but the man was swift and never let his axe be hit by Ice. This must've been the commander. Ned pivoted to avoid a jab of the ironborn's shield, and he sliced out with Ice. The man pulled his hand back, but Ice glided through the shield, cutting it in half. The man dropped it and growled, pulling another handaxe out of his belt. The Ironborn, for his part, became a whirling dervish. Axes licked out, slashing towards Ned. He ducked and weaved, the man's skill well on par with Neds. But one mistake is all it takes in a fight, and the Ironborn over committed to a chop. Ned took his opportunity, slicing upwards with Ice. The hand of the Ironborn flew into the air. He might've screamed from the pain, but the next moment Ned sent his head flying as well. Ned wheezed. The dodging and weaving had taken much out of him, and his side burned where the Ironborn had landed a cut. Mallister men flooded around him, forming a bulwark. A faint roar in the distance made Ned's head turn.

The Northern army colliding with the remaining Ironborn was the last thing Ned saw before he collapsed.

 _Jahaerys_

Jon awoke to a pulse in the night. It was strange, a beat he could not identify. He looked around his room, trying to figure out it was. It reminded him faintly of a drum, like the kind the mummers had used. He stood up, looking around. The fire in the corner was dying out, so Jon prodded it a bit with the poker. It came back to life, not quite roaring but fair enough. He examined his surroundings, still searching for the pulse. After turning a bit, he figured out that the pulse grew stronger when he pointed a certain direction. Jon glanced back to his bed, longing for sleep, but he knew this was probably important. With a sigh, he got up and unlatched his door, opening it. He stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him as an after thought.

Jon Snow looked around carefully. Nothing. He snuck through the halls in the dead of night. He was glad they'd been allowed seperate chambers in the children's wing. His brother Robb would probably have caught him otherwise. Uncle Alaric, after some assurance that he was fine, had headed to his own bed nearby. He didn't know why Uncle was so worried about him, anyway; he was almost eight namedays old, and just because Father was gone didn't make him scared. Father had been gone lots of times, to visit Lords. Jon peeked around a corner. _Clear._ He continued along, avoiding guard patrols. He normally wouldn't be out like this. He shouldn't have been anyway, but the pulsing was growing more and more annoying. He could feel the beat, thudding along. It was somewhere nearby, he knew, but little else. Jon moved through another doorway, looking about. Thankfully, he'd missed most of the guard patrols. He passed Uncle Alarics room, moving extra quietly. Then he reached Father's solar. The thudding grew stronger. The room wasn't used much, he knew, not after Father had left. Lady Catelyn had no need for it, he guessed. Jon tested the door.

Unlocked, thankfully. He moved in slowly, praying a board didn't creak. The thudding grew louder. He searched around, trying to figure it out. Where was it coming from, he wondered. He drew closer to the desk. He opened the drawers carefully, but it was useless. The pulsing was still there, but he found nothing. Jon turned, and he noticed a loose brick he might not have otherwise. How many times had Father brought him into the solar to chastise him for doing something foolish with Robb? How many times had he missed this brick? He tugged on it. It was difficult to leverage, hefty for a boy of seven. He managed to pull it out after a time, placing it carefully on the floor. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Finally, he'd know what the pulsing was. A moment later, just as Jon reached in, he felt something. It was hard like a stone. The pulsing grew louder, then something queer happened. His heartbeat aligned with the stone, like two soldiers marching together. He pulled it out. In the dim moonlight, Jon could see speckles of silver, but mostly black. He prodded the stone. There were strange lines upon it, a membrane or something. _Fire…_ a voice in the back of his mind murmured. _Put the stone in the fire…_ Jon looked to the fireplace. It was out, but he knew in his room the fire was still going. Jon had the foresight to put the brick back in place. He moved quietly as he could, though he cursed when he nudged something near Uncle's room. He made it back to his room. He rolled up the sleeves of his nightwear, placing the egg in the fire. It tickled him lightly.

Jon examined it further in the firelight. Not a stone, he realized, but an egg, an enormous egg. Black, with hints of silver. The voice in the back of his mind said something again. _Blood… prick your finger…_ _the egg needs it…_ The voice was laborious, slow, old. Jon didn't know what it was, but he searched his room anyway. He found a needle. He wasnt sure where it came from, but he took it anyway. He pricked his thumb. It hurt, but the blood welled up. Jon held it over the egg. The drop fell upon the egg, but rather than slide down or evaporate… the egg appeared to drink it in. At that moment, his door creaked open. Jon cursed himself for not locking the door. Uncle Alaric stepped in, looking from him, to the egg in the fire and back to him again. "Jon… I believe we need to have a talk."


End file.
